Procrastination is the thief of time: Year after year it steals, till all are fled.

Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes; They love a train, they tread each other's heel.

A man I knew who lived upon a smile, And well it fed him; he look'd plump and fair, While rankest venom foam'd through every vein.

They most the world enjoy who least admire.

[The] public path of life Is dirty.

Some go to Church, proud humbly to repent, And come back much more guilty than they went: One way they look, another way they steer, Pray to the Gods; but would have Mortals hear; And when their sins they set sincerely down, They'll find that their Religion has been one.

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