The course of Nature is the art of God
Where Nature's end of language is declin'd, And men talk only to conceal the mind.
Friendship's the wine of life: but friendship new... is neither strong nor pure.
They only babble who practise not reflection
Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn.
To frown at pleasure, and to smile in pain.