Could Swell The Soul To Rage, Or

Only Man Clogs His Happiness With Care, Destroying What Is With Thoughts Of What May Be.

And He, Who Servilely Creeps After Sense, Is Safe, But Ne'er Will Reach An Excellence.

Drinking Is The Soldier's Pleasure.

For My Part, I Can Compare Her (a Gossip) To Nothing But The Sun; For, Like Him, She Knows No Rest, Nor Ever Sets In One Place But To Rise In Another.

But Love's A Malady Without A Cure.