Who hath not heard the rich complain Of surfeits, and corporeal pain? He barr'd from every use of wealth, Envies the ploughman's strength and health.

To friendship every burden's light.

And when a lady's in the case, You know, all other things give place.

Give me, kind heaven, a private station, a mind serene for contemplation.

Follow love and it will flee, flee love and it will follow thee.

From kings to cobblers 'tis the same; Bad servants wound their masters' fame.

She who has never lov'd, has never liv'd.