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.

Midway from Nothing to the Deity!

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.

The house of laughter makes a house of woe.

Time destroyed Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt.

By all means use some time to be alone.

None think the great unhappy, but the great.