In youth, what disappointments of our own making: in age, what disappointments from the nature of things.
Poor in abundance, famish'd at a feast.
What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.
At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan.
And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.