Think naught a trifle, though it small appear; Small stands the mountain, moments make the year, and trifles life.

Some for renown, on scraps of learning dote, And think they grow immortal as they quote.

None think the great unhappy, but the great.

I've known my lady (for she loves a tune) For fevers take an opera in June: And, though perhaps you'll think the practice bold, A midnight park is sov'reign for a cold.

We push time from us, and we wish him back; * * * * * * Life we think long and short; death seek and shun.

O! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, Lost to the noble sallies of the soul! Who think it solitude to be alone.