How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude! But grant me still a friend in my retreat, whom I may whisper, solitude is sweet.
There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart; he does not feel for man.
Built God a church and laughed His word to scorn.
Thus happiness depends, as nature shows, less on exterior things than most suppose.
O Winter, ruler of the inverted year!
Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.