And, after all, what is a lie? ’Tis but The truth in masquerade - Lord Byron

Think'st thou existence doth depend on time?
It doth; but actions are our epochs: mine
Have made my days and nights imperishable
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore
Innumerable atoms; and one desert
Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break,
But nothing rests, save carcases and wrecks,
Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness.

The humblest individual under heaven, Than might suffice a moderate century through. I knew that nought was lasting, but now even Change grows too changeable without being new.

The heart ran o'er
With silent worship of the great of old! The dead but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule
Our spirits from their urns.