Language is the dress of thought; every time you talk your mind is on parade.
He dies-alas! how soon he dies!
Enlarge my life with multitude of days, In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays; Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know, That life protracted is protracted woe. Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy, And shuts up all the passages of joy.