Fill the bowl with rosy wine, around our temples roses twine, And let us cheerfully awhile, like wine and roses, smile.
This only grant me, that my means may lie, too low for envy, for contempt to high.
Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
Come, my best Friends! my Books! and lead me on.
Acquaintance I would have, but when it depends; not on number, but the choice of friends.
To be a husbandman, is but a retreat from the city; to be a philosopher, from the world; or rather, a retreat from the world, as it is man's, into the world, as it is God's.