Man wants little, nor that little long.

Who combats with a brother, wounds himself.

Man makes a death which Nature never made. And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.

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.

The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.

Fame is the shade of immortality, And in itself a shadow. Soon as caught, Contemn'd; it shrinks to nothing in the grasp.

The house of laughter makes a house of woe.