Trust not yourself, but your defects to know, make use of every friend and every foe.
And make each day a critic on the last.
Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell, For sober, studious days!
How loved, how honored once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot A heap of dust alone remains of thee 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
Condition, circumstance, is not the thing; Bliss is the same in subject or in king.
Here am I, dying of a hundred good symptoms.