Man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife.
Genius is of no country.
Patience is sorrow's salve.
Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
The surest way to health, say what they will, Is never to suppose we shall be ill; Most of the ills which we poor mortals know From doctors and imagination flow.
With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.