Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain.
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.
The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick, / whom, snoring, she disturbs.
Unmissed but by his dogs and by his groom.
Glory, built on selfish principles, is shame and guilt.
Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die