O let me be undone the common way, And have the common comfort to be pity'd, And not be ruin'd in the mask of bliss, And so be envy'd, and be wretched too!

Titles are marks of honest men, and wise; The fool or knave that wears a title lies.

Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? What tho' we wade in Wealth, or soar in Fame? Earth's highest station ends in 'Here he lies;' and 'Dust to dust' concludes the noblest songs.

The spider's most attenuated thread Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie On earthly bliss; it breaks at every breeze.

Too low they build who build below the skies.

When men once reach their autumn, sickly joys fall off apace, as yellow leaves from trees

Some for renown, on scraps of learning dote, And think they grow immortal as they quote.