Wishing of all employments is the worst
Nothing but what astonishes is true.
Take God from nature, nothing great is left.
Groan under gold, yet weep for want of bread.
Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.
We push time from us, and we wish him back; * * * * * * Life we think long and short; death seek and shun.