His wit invites you by his looks to come, But when you knock, it never is at home.
The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.
...So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
O solitude, where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place.
Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die
Happy the man who sees a God employed in all the good and ills that checker life.