Procrastination is the thief of time: Year after year it steals, till all are fled.
There buds the promise of celestial worth.
Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes.
The man that blushes is not quite a brute.
Joys season'd high, and tasting strong of guilt.
The person of wisdom is the person of years.