Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age.
Pains of love be sweeter far than all other pleasures are.
Old age creeps on us ere we think it nigh.
But wild Ambition loves to slide, not stand, And Fortune's ice prefers to Virtue's land.
Or hast thou known the world so long in vain?
Content with poverty, my soul I arm; And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.