Morn, Wak'd by the circling hours, with rosy hand Unbarr'd the gates of light.

He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay.

True it is that covetousness is rich, modesty starves.

From his lips/Not words alone pleased her.

God has set labor and rest, as day and night to men successive.

What wisdom can there be to choose, what continence to forbear without the knowledge of evil? He that can apprehend and consider vice with all her baits and seeming pleasures, and yet abstain, and yet distinguish, and yet prefer that which is truly better, he is the true wayfaring Christian.

Solitude sometimes is best society.