And rarely for the better; or the best,
More mortal than the common births of fate.
Each moment has its sickle, emulous 193
Of Time’s enormous scythe, whose ample sweep
Strikes empires from the root; each moment plays
His little weapon in the narrower sphere
Of sweet domestic comfort, and cuts down
The fairest bloom of sublunary bliss.
Bliss! sublunary bliss!—proud words, and vain!
Implicit treason to divine decree! 200