Who often reads, will sometimes wish to write.
Dreams are like portraits; and we find they please because they are confessed resemblances.
Her air, her manners, all who saw admir'd; Courteous though coy, and gentle though retir'd; The joy of youth and health her eyes display'd, And ease of heart her every look convey'd.
Life's bloomy flush was lost.
Let's learn to live, for we must die alone.
Experience finds few of the scenes that lively hope designs.