As soon Seek roses in December-ice in June; Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff, Believe a woman or an epitaph, Or any other thing that's false, before You trust in Critics.

Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of Life is passed in sleep.

What is this Death?-a quiet of the heart? The whole of that of which we are a part?

Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; The best of Life is but intoxication.

That all-softening, overpowering knell, The Tocsin of the Soul-the dinner-bell.

The English winter-ending in July, To recommence in August.

The "good old times"-all times when old are good- Are gone.

Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame.

Out of chaos God made a world, and out of high passions comes a people.

All who joy would win Must share it,- Happiness was born a Twin.