If there be a regal solitude, it is a sick-bed. How the patient lords it there!

Positively, the best thing a man can have to do, is nothing, and next to that perhaps — good works.

Riddle of destiny, who can show What thy short visit meant, or know What thy errand here below?

When I am not walking, I am reading. I cannot sit and think.

This world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion given The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow, Theres nothing true but Heaven.

To be sick is to enjoy monarchical prerogatives.

Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells Of youth and home, and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime!