He trudged along unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went, for want of thought.
Riches cannot rescue from the grave, which claims alike the monarch and the slave.
Fattened in vice, so callous and so gross, he sins and sees not, senseless of his loss.
Pleasure never comes sincere to man; but lent by heaven upon hard usury.
Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray; Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.
Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age.