Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age.

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.

When he spoke, what tender words he used! So softly, that like flakes of feathered snow, They melted as they fell.

The thought of being nothing after death is a burden insupportable to a virtuous man.

Bacchus ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain. Bachus's blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure, Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure- Sweet is pleasure after pain.

When we view elevated ideas of Nature, the result of that view is admiration, which is always the cause of pleasure.

He trudged along unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went, for want of thought.