Man makes a death which Nature never made. And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.
Joys season'd high, and tasting strong of guilt.
Pity swells the tide of love.
Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.
Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes.
Youth is not rich in time; it may be poor; Part with it as with money, sparing; pay No moment but in purchase of its worth, And what it's worth, ask death-beds; they can tell.