O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
Four seasons fill the measure of the year; there are four seasons in the minds of men.
Life is but a day; A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way From a tree's summit.
When it is moving on luxurious wings, The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings.
Wine is only sweet to happy men.
Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.