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Why dost thou build up stately rooms on high, Thou who art under ground to lie? Thou sow’st and plantest, but no fruit must see, For death, alas! is reaping thee.

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The world’s a scene of changes.
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Stones of small worth may lie unseen by day, But night itself does the rich gem betray.
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Does not the passage of Moses and the Israelites into the Holy Land yield incomparably more poetic variety than the voyages of Ulysses or Aeneas?
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Who that has reason, and his smell, Would not among roses and jasmin dwell?
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I never had any other desire so strong, and so like covetousness, as that
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Enjoy the present hour, Be thankful for the past, And neither fear nor wish Th’ approaches of the last.
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Books should, not Business, entertain the Light; And Sleep, as undisturb’d as Death, the Night.
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Till the whole stream, which stopped him, should be gone, That runs, and as it runs, for ever will run on.
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Sleep is a god too proud to wait in palaces, and yet so humble too as not to scorn the meanest country cottages.
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Our yesterday’s to-morrow now is gone, And still a new to-morrow does come on. We by to-morrow draw out all our store, Till the exhausted well can yield no more.
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Man is too near all kinds of beasts,–a fawning dog, a roaring lion, a thieving fox, a robbing wolf, a dissembling crocodile, a treacherous decoy, and a rapacious vulture.
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As for being much known by sight, and pointed out, I cannot comprehend the honor that lies withal; whatsoever it be, every mountebank has it more than the best doctor.
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When Harvey’s violent passion she did see, Began to tremble and to flee; Took sanctuary, like Daphne, in a tree
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God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.
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To th’ active Moon a quick brisk stroke he gave, To Saturn’s string a touch more sore and grave.
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Why dost thou build up stately rooms on high, Thou who art under ground to lie? Thou sow’st and plantest, but no fruit must see, For death, alas! is reaping thee.
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Build Fruit Ground m Strategy Plantest Under

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