Glories
Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams,
And shadows soon decaying.

This world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given;
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow,—
There's nothing true but Heaven.

The world is all a carcass and vanity, The shadow of a shadow, a play And in one word, just nothing.

I find the present monotonous and absurd spectacle of the world outside me so completely lacking in value or nobility that I can scarcely conceive of it as being the world.

The light of other days is faded,
And all their glories past.

The world is but a show, vain and empty, a mere nothing, bearing the semblance of reality. Set not your affections upon it. [...] Verily I say, the world is like the vapor in a desert, which the thirsty dreameth to be water and striveth after it with all his might, until when he cometh unto it, he findeth it to be mere illusion.

There' s not a joy the world can give like that it takes away,
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay.

Without the smile from partial beauty won,
Oh what were man? — a world without a sun.

All my joys to this are folly
Naught so sweet as melancholy.

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely - flowers,
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.

All is vanity and everybody's vain. Women are terribly vain. So are men — more so, if possible.

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely—flowers.

Where none admire, 'tis useless to excel;
Where none are beaux, 'tis vain to be a belle.