When thinking about companions gone, we feel ourselves doubly alone.
Each age has deemed the new-born year the fittest time for festal cheer.
We are like the herb which flourisheth most when it is most trampled on.
The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seemed to have know a better day.
Whose lenient sorrows find relief, whose joys are chastened by their grief.
Mellow nuts have the hardest rind.