O! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, Lost to the noble sallies of the soul! Who think it solitude to be alone.

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.

Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn.

Life's cares are comforts; such by Heav'n design'd; He that hath none must make them, or be wretched.

Midway from Nothing to the Deity!

We bleed, we tremble; we forget, we smile - The mind turns fool, before the cheek is dry

By all means use some time to be alone.