The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed today, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? Pleas'd to the last he crops the flow'ry food, And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood.

And empty heads console with empty sound.

In lazy apathy let stoics boast, their virtue fix'd: 't is fix'd as in a frost; contracted all, retiring to the breast; but strength of mind is exercise, not rest.

I never knew any man in my life who could not bear another's misfortunes perfectly like a Christian.

Aurora now, fair daughter of the dawn, Sprinkled with rosy light the dewy lawn.

Who dies in youth and vigour, dies the best.

Is not absence death to those who love?