And plenty makes us poor.

Restless at home, and ever prone to range.

Love is a child that talks in broken language, yet then he speaks most plain.

Happy the man, and happy he alone, he who can call today his own; he who, secure within, can say, tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

Good sense and good nature are never separated; and good nature is the product of right reason.

Men are but children of a larger growth, Our appetites as apt to change as theirs, And full as craving too, and full as vain.

How easy 'tis, when Destiny proves kind, With full-spread sails to run before the wind!