I loved him not; and yet now he is gone / I feel I am alone.

I strove with none; for none was worth my strife; Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art; I warmed both hands before the fire of life; It sinks, and I am ready to depart

Be always displeased at what thou art, if thou desire to attain to what thou art not; for where thou hast pleased thyself, there thou abidest.

Child of a day, thou knowest not / The tears that overflow thy urn.

Goodness does not more certainly make men happy than happiness makes them good

When thinking about companions gone, we feel ourselves doubly alone.