E'en in mid-harvest, while the jocund swain Pluck'd from the brittle stalk the golden grain, Oft have I seen the war of winds contend, And prone on earth th' infuriate storm descend, Waste far and wide, and by the roots uptorn, The heavy harvest sweep through ether borne, As light straw and rapid stubble fly In dark'ning whirlwinds round the wintry sky.

A shifty, fickle object is woman, always. (Varium et mutabile semper femina.)

Not being untutored in suffering, I learn to pity those in affliction

The flocks fear the wolf, the crops the storm, and the trees the wind.

Fear is the proof of a degenerate mind.

It is easy to go down into Hell...; but to climb back again, to retrace one's steps to the upper air - -there's the rub.

We are not all able to do all things.