Comfort And Indolence Are Cronies.

A Name, It Has More Than Nominal Worth, And Belongs To Good Or Bad Luck At Birth

O Bed! O Bed! Delicious Bed! That Heaven Upon Earth To The Weary Head.

The Autumn Is Old; The Sere Leaves Are Flying; He Hath Gather'd Up Gold, And Now He Is Dying;- Old Age, Begin Sighing!

Well For The Drones Of The Social Hive That There Are Bees Of An Industrious Turn, Willing, For An Infinitesimal Share Of The Honey, To Undertake The Labor Of Its Fabrication.

For Man May Pious Texts Repeat, And Yet Religion Have No Inward Seat