Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well?
Is not absence death to those who love?
Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please, With too much spirit to be e'er at ease, With too much quickness ever to be taught, With too much thinking to have common thought: You purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing but a rage to live.
Consult the Genius of the Place in all.
Those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
Good God! how often are we to die before we go quite off this stage? In every friend we lose a part of ourselves, and the best part.