By all means use some time to be alone.
Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope's pencil writ.
Man makes a death which Nature never made. And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.
Where Nature's end of language is declin'd, And men talk only to conceal the mind.
Youth is not rich in time; it may be poor; Part with it as with money, sparing; pay No moment but in purchase of its worth, And what it's worth, ask death-beds; they can tell.
O! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, Lost to the noble sallies of the soul! Who think it solitude to be alone.