Men think highly of those who rise rapidly in the world; whereas nothing rises quicker than dust, straw, and feathers - Lord Byron

Man. (alone). We are the fools of Time and Terror: Days
Steal on us, and steal from us; yet we live,
Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.
In all the days of this detested yoke — This vital weight upon the struggling heart,
Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain,
Or joy that ends in agony or faintness — 170
In all the days of past and future — for
In life there is no present — we can number
How few — how less than few — wherein the soul
Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back
As from a stream in winter, though the chill
Be but a moment’s.

I live,
But live to die; and, living, see no thing
To make death hateful, save an innate clinging,
A loathsome, and yet all invincible
Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I
Despise myself, yet cannot overcome––
And so I live. Would I had never lived!

Ata që nuk do të arsyetojnë, janë fanatikë, ata që nuk munden, janë të marrë, dhe ata që nuk guxojnë, janë skllevër.