Winged time glides on insensibly, and deceive us; and there is nothing more fleeting than years.
Everything changes, nothing is lost.
He who would not be idle, let him fall in love.
Sleep, rest of nature, O sleep, most gentle of the divinities, peace of the soul, thou at whose presence care disappears, who soothest hearts wearied with daily employments, and makest them strong again for labour!
It is the poor man who'll ever count his flock.
Dear to girls' hearts is their own beauty.