Groan under gold, yet weep for want of bread.
To frown at pleasure, and to smile in pain.
The man of wisdom is the man of years.
Think naught a trifle, though it small appear; Small stands the mountain, moments make the year, and trifles life.
We see time's furrows on another's brow, And death intrench'd, preparing his assault; How few themselves in that just mirror see!
A foe to God ne'er was true friend to man, Some sinister intent taints all he does.