Maxioms by Edward Young
Narcissus is the glory of his race:
For who does nothing with a better grace?
Narcissus is the glory of his race:
For who does nothing with a better grace?
What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.
What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.
He calls his wish, it comes; he sends it back,
And says he called another; that arrives,
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He calls his wish, it comes; he sends it back,
And says he called another; that arrives,
Meets the same welcome; yet he still calls on;
Till one calls him, who varies not his call,
But holds him fast, in chains of darkness bound,
Till Nature dies, and judgment sets him free;
A freedom far less welcome than this chain.
Our birth is nothing but our death begun, As tapers waste the moment they take fire.
Our birth is nothing but our death begun, As tapers waste the moment they take fire.
The melancholy ghosts of dead renown,
Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.
The melancholy ghosts of dead renown,
Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.
