It Is Very Common For Us To

Of Those That Spin Out Trifles And Die Without A Memorial, Many Flatter Themselves With High Opinions Of Their Own Importance, And Imagine That They Are Every Day Adding Some Improvement To Human Life.

Enlarge My Life With Multitude Of Days, In Health, In Sickness, Thus The Suppliant Prays; Hides From Himself His State, And Shuns To Know, That Life Protracted Is Protracted Woe. Time Hovers O'er, Impatient To Destroy, And Shuts Up All The Passages Of Joy.

Indolence Is The Devil's Cushion.

How Small Of All That Human Hearts Endure, That Part Which Laws Or Kings Can Cause Or Cure! Still To Ourselves In Every Place Consigned, Our Own Felicity We Make Or Find. With Secret Course, Which No Loud Storms Annoy, Glides The Smooth Current Of Domestic Joy.

At Seventy-seven It Is Time To Be In Earnest.