They most the world enjoy who least admire.

Body and soul, like peevish man and wife, United jar, and yet are loth to part.

Revere thyself, and yet thyself despise

But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.

Our birth is nothing but our death begun; As tapers waste, that instant they take fire.

In youth, what disappointments of our own making: in age, what disappointments from the nature of things.

Not all the pride of beauty; Those eyes, that tell us what the sun is made of; Those lips, whose touch is to be bought with life; Those hills of driven snow, which seen are felt: All these possessed are nought, but as they are The proof, the substance of an inward passion, And the rich plunder of a taken heart.