Ill habits gather unseen degrees, as brooks make rivers, rivers run to seas.

All heiresses are beautiful.

When bounteous autumn rears her head, he joys to pull the ripened pear.

Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure,- Sweet is pleasure after pain.

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

For truth has such a face and such a mien, as to be loved needs only to be seen.

Or hast thou known the world so long in vain?