Life's cares are comforts; such by Heav'n design'd; He that hath none must make them, or be wretched.
Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow.
But love, like wine, gives a tumultuous bliss, Heighten'd indeed beyond all mortal pleasures; But mingles pangs and madness in the bowl.
Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope's pencil writ.
Less base the fear of death than fear of life.
What ardently we wish, we soon believe.