One Cannot Say He Wanted Wit, But

They Say Everything In The World Is Good For Something.

Since Every Man Who Lives Is Born To Die, And None Can Boast Sincere Felicity, With Equal Mind, What Happens, Let Us Bear, Nor Joy Nor Grieve Too Much For Things Beyond Our Care. Like Pilgrims To The' Appointed Place We Tend; The World's An Inn, And Death The Journey's End.

All Objects Lose By Too Familiar A View.

Joy Rul'd The Day, And Love The Night.

I Have A Soul That Like An Ample Shield Can Take In All, And Verge Enough For More.