The good we have enjoyed from Heaven's free will, and shall we murmur to endure the ill?

None are so busy as the fool and the knave.

One of the greatest, most noble, and most sublime poems which either this age or nation has produced.

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Honour but an empty bubble; Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying. If all the world be worth the winning, Think, oh think it worth enjoying: Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee.

Even victors are by victories undone.

Men are but children of a larger growth.

If thou dost still retain the same ill habits, the same follies, too, still thou art bound to vice, and still a slave.