The soul of man was made to walk the skies.
Friendship's the wine of life.
I've known my lady (for she loves a tune) For fevers take an opera in June: And, though perhaps you'll think the practice bold, A midnight park is sov'reign for a cold.
Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?
Body and soul, like peevish man and wife, United jar, and yet are loth to part.
Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.