A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.
The first sure symptom of a mind in health Is rest of heart and pleasure felt at home.
Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes.
Ocean into tempest wrought, To waft a feather, or to drown a fly.
Poor in abundance, famish'd at a feast.
Day buries day; month, month; and year the year: Our life is but a chain of many deaths.