Our farmers round, well pleased with constant gain, like other farmers, flourish and complain.
In idle wishes, fools supinely stay. Be there a will and wisdom finds a way.
An infatuated man is not only foolish, but wild.
With eye upraised his master's look to scan, The joy, the solace, and the aid of man: The rich man's guardian and the poor man's friend, The only creature faithful to the end.
Books cannot always please, however good; Minds are not ever craving for their food.
Oh, rather give me commentators plain, Who with no deep researches vex the brain; Who from the dark and doubtful love to run, And hold their glimmering tapers to the sun.