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.

And diff'ring judgments serve but to declare that truth lies somewhere, if we knew but where.

Man disavows, and Deity disowns me: hell might afford my miseries a shelter; therefore hell keeps her ever-hungry mouths all bolted against me.

Accomplishments have taken virtue's place, and wisdom falls before exterior grace.

Oh to have a lodge in some vast wilderness. Where rumors of oppression and deceit, of unsuccessful and successful wars may never reach me anymore.

I pity them greatly, but I must be mum, for how could we do without sugar and rum?