There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.

The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by. As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky.

It is said to be the manner of hypochondriacs to change often their physician.

Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.

The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, And make their bed with thee.

Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.