The flower's are gone when the Fruits appear to ripen.
How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense, and love the offender, yet detest the offence?
You purchase pain with all that joy can give and die of nothing but a rage to live.
Happy the man whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound, content to breathe his native air in his own ground.
Hope springs eternal.
You eat, in dreams, the custard of the day.