Time, As He Passes Us, Has A

An Idler Is A Watch That Wants Both Hands; As Useless If It Goes As When It Stands.

Dejection Of Spirits, Which May Have Prevented Many A Man From Becoming An Author, Made Me One. I Find Constant Employment Necessary, And Therefore Take Care To Be Constantly Employed. . . . When I Can Find No Other Occupation, I Think; And When I Think, I Am Very Apt To Do It In Rhyme.

Absence From Whom We Love Is Worse Than Death, And Frustrates Hope Severer Than Despair.

Solitude, Seeming A Sanctuary, Proves A Grave; A Sepulchre In Which The Living Lie, Where All Good Qualities Grow Sick And Die

Nor Rural Sights Alone, But Rural Sounds, Exhilirate The Spirit, And Restore The Tone Of Languid Nature.