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

The air was fragrant with a thousand trodden aromatic herbs, with fields of lavender, and with the brightest roses blushing in tufts all over the meadows.

Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.

I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .

Much has seen said of the wisdom of old age. Old age is wise, I grant, for itself, but not wise for the community. It is wise in declining new enterprises, for it has not the power nor the time to execute them; wise in shrinking from difficulty, for it has not the strength to overcome it; wise in avoiding danger, for it lacks the faculty of ready and swift action, by which dangers are parried and converted into advantages. But this is not wisdom for mankind at large, by whom new enterprises must be undertaken, dangers met, and difficulties surmounted.

Eloquence is the poetry of prose.