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.

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 man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay, Provides a home from which to run away.

Inhumanity is caught from man, From smiling man.

Friendship's the wine of life.

This vast and solid earth, that blazing sun, Those skies, thro' which it rolls, must all have end. What then is man? The smallest part of nothing.

We cry for mercy to the next amusement, The next amusement mortgages our fields