Restless At Home, And Ever Prone To

Pity Only On Fresh Objects Stays, But With The Tedious Sight Of Woes Decays.

Light Sufferings Give Us Leisure To Complain.

Fool That I Was, Upon My Eagle's Wings I Bore This Wren, Till I Was Tired With Soaring, And Now He Mounts Above Me.

But 'tis The Talent Of Our English Nation, Still To Be Plotting Some New Reformation.

The Thought Of Being Nothing After Death Is A Burden Insupportable To A Virtuous Man.