In solitude, where we are least alone. - Lord Byron

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.

But I being fond of true philosophy,
Say very often to myself, 'Alas!
All things that have been born were born to die,
And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass;
You've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly,
And if you had it o'er again — 't would pass — So thank your stars that matters are no worse,
And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.

Perverts the Prophets and purloins the Psalms.