And Satan trembles when he sees The weakest saint upon his knees. - William Cowper

My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,
With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;
Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments I see,
Have a being less durable even than he.

While fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.

I play with syllables and sport in song