The thoughtful soul to solitude retires.
Dead yesterdays and unborn tomorrows, why fret about it, if today be sweet.
To be free of belief and unbelief is my religion.
A drink is shorter than a tale
Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! That Youths sweet-scented Manuscript should close!
The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd, Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep They told their comrades, and to Sleep return'd.