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!

The qualities all in a bee that we meet, In an epigram never should fail; The body should always be little and sweet, And a sting should be felt in its tail.

What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature; around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!

He mourns the dead who lives as they desire.

Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.

In an active life is sown the seed of wisdom; but he who reflects not, never reaps; has no harvest from it, but carries the burden of age without the wages of experience; nor knows himself old, but from his infirmities, the parish register, and the contempt of mankind. And age, if it has not esteem, has nothing.

By all means use some time to be alone.