Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes.

Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world.

By all means use some time to be alone.

Men are but men; we did not make ourselves.

The bell strikes One. We take no note of time But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours.

Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform and mortal men lay hold on heaven.

In an active life is sown the seed of wisdom... And age, if it has not esteem, has nothing.