Far happier are the dead methinks than they who look for death and fear it every day.
Th' embroid'ry of poetic dreams.
Reasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way, Whilst meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray.
Still ending, and beginning still.
Could he with reason murmur at his case, Himself sole author of his own disgrace?
The cares of today are seldom those of tomorrow, and when we lie down at night we may safely say to most of our troubles, "Ye have done your worst, and we shall see you no more."