They Live Too Long Who Happiness Outlive.

For My Part, I Can Compare Her (a Gossip) To Nothing But The Sun; For, Like Him, She Knows No Rest, Nor Ever Sets In One Place But To Rise In Another.

The Bravest Men Are Subject Most To Chance.

What I Have Left Is From My Native Spring; I've Still A Heart That Swells, In Scorn Of Fate, And Lifts Me To My Banks.

Second Thoughts, They Say, Are Best.

Music Is Inarticulate Poesy.