The Hours Of A Wise Man Are

Flying Would Give Such Occasions For Intrigues As People Cannot Meet With Who Have Nothing But Legs To Carry Them.

Though We Seem Grieved At The Shortness Of Life In General, We Are Wishing Every Period Of It At An End. The Minor Longs To Be At Age, Then To Be A Man Of Business, Then To Make Up An Estate, Then To Arrive At Honors, Then To Retire.

My Heart Leaps At The Trumpet's Voice.

The Gods In Bounty Work Up Storms About Us, That Give Mankind Occasion To Exert Their Hidden Strength, And Throw Our Into Practice Virtues That Shun The Day, And Lie Concealed In The Smooth Seasons And The Calms Of Life.

A Thousand Trills And Quivering Sounds In Airy Circles O'er Us Fly, Till, Wafted By A Gentle Breeze, They Faint And Languish By Degrees, And At A Distance Die.