Vice stings us even in our pleasures, but virtue consoles us even in our pains.
The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick, / whom, snoring, she disturbs.
Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.
Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die
They whom truth and wisdom lead, can gather honey from a weed.
Still ending, and beginning still.