Virtue, with immortality, expires.
Who tells me he denies his soul immortal, 1179
Whate’er his boast, has told me, he’s a knave.
His duty ’tis, to love himself alone;
Nor care though mankind perish, if he smiles.
Who thinks ere long the man shall wholly die,
Is dead already; nought but brute survives.
And are there such?—Such candidates there are
For more than death; for utter loss of being,
Being, the basis of the Deity!