Grief Is Itself A Medicine.

And, Of All Lies (be That One Poet's Boast) / The Lie That Flatters I Abhor The Most.

How Sweet, How Passing Sweet, Is Solitude! But Grant Me Still A Friend In My Retreat, Whom I May Whisper, Solitude Is Sweet.

Scenes Must Be Beautiful Which Daily View'd Please Daily, And Whose Novelty Survives Long Knowledge And The Scrutiny Of Years.

The Cares Of Today Are Seldom Those Of Tomorrow.

Without One Friend, Above All Foes, Britannia Gives The World Repose.