May I a small house and large garden have; And a few friends, And many books, both true.
Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up between two eternities!
Neither the praise nor the blame is our own.
Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.
Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.
Sleep is a god too proud to wait in palaces, and yet so humble too as not to scorn the meanest country cottages.