What shall I do to be for ever known, And make the age to come my own?
Sleep is a god too proud to wait in palaces, and yet so humble too as not to scorn the meanest country cottages.
All this world's noise appears to me a dull, ill-acted comedy!
The monster London laugh at me.
May I a small house and large garden have; And a few friends, And many books, both true.
Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.