Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up between two eternities!
Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.
Fill the bowl with rosy wine, around our temples roses twine, And let us cheerfully awhile, like wine and roses, smile.
All this world's noise appears to me a dull, ill-acted comedy!
s a scene of changes, and to be constant in Nature were inconstancy.
Come, my best Friends! my Books! and lead me on.