In delay there lies no plenty.
Tis ever common That men are merriest when they are from home.
Pain pays the income of each precious thing.
There is a kind of character in thy life, That to the observer doth thy history, fully unfold.
Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again.
Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth But that our soft conditions and our hearts Should well agree with our external parts?