He trudged along unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went, for want of thought.
Heaven be thanked, we live in such an age, When no man dies for love, but on the stage.
Joy rul'd the day, and Love the night.
She, though in full-blown flower of glorious beauty, Grows cold even in the summer of her age.
Beware of the fury of the patient man.
The thought of being nothing after death is a burden insupportable to a virtuous man.