The smell of profit is clean and sweet, whatever the source.

Drooping along the ground the vine misses its widowed elm.

Nature and wisdom always say the same.

The brief span of our poor unhappy life to its final hour Is hastening on; and while we drink and call for gay wreaths, Perfumes, and young girls, old age creeps upon us, unperceived.

Wisdom triumphs over chance.

Writing in the incurable itch that possesses many.

Nature confesses that she has bestowed on the human race hearts of softest mould, in that she has given us tears.