Our wasted oil unprofitably burns,Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns.
I was a stricken deer that left the herdLong since.
Mountains interposedMake enemies of nations, who had elseLike kindred drops been mingled into one.
Domestic Happiness, thou only blissOf Paradise that hast survived the Fall!
All learned, and all drunk!
The town is man's world, but this (country life) is of God.
A wise man loses nothing, if he but save himself.
No man can lose what he never had.
What's saved affordsNo indication of what's lost.
Things that are not at all, are never lost.
Wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss,But cheerly seek how to redress their harms.
Beaten paths are for beaten men.
Losers must have leave to speak.
That puts it not unto the touchTo win or lose it all.
But over all things brooding sleptThe quiet sense of something lost.
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