Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes; They love a train, they tread each other's heel.
One eye on death, and one full fix'd on heaven.
Blest leisure is our curse; like that of Cain, It, makes us wander, wander earth around, To fly that tyrant Thought. As Atlas groan'd The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour.
[The] public path of life Is dirty.
Be wise with speed; a fool at forty is a fool indeed.
Age should fly concourse, cover in retreat defects of judgment, and the will subdue; walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore of that vast ocean it must sail so soon.