The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay, Provides a home from which to run away.

Not all the pride of beauty; Those eyes, that tell us what the sun is made of; Those lips, whose touch is to be bought with life; Those hills of driven snow, which seen are felt: All these possessed are nought, but as they are The proof, the substance of an inward passion, And the rich plunder of a taken heart.

Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, A soldier should be modest as a maid.

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.

What ardently we wish, we soon believe.

Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.

Horace appears in good humor while he censures, and therefore his censure has the more weight, as supposed to proceed from judgment and not from passion.