Give us enough but with a sparing hand.

The chain that's fixed to the throne of Jove, On which the fabric of our world depends, One link dissolved, the whole creation ends.

The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.

Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.

The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more!

What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?

Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.