Fear is the tax that conscience pays to guilt.
Vain empty words / Of honour, glory and immortal fame, / Can these recall the spirit from its place, / Or re-inspire the breathless clay with life? / What tho' your fame with all its thousand trumpets, / Sound o'er the sepulchres, will that awake / The sleeping dead.
When all the blandishments of life are gone, The coward sneaks to death, the brave live on.
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