In this chattering world no one is my intimate
My lament has come, he is my friend
Either my moist eye is never without tears
Or I lay down in sleep that I may bring my grief to an end


P 636

Comrade or mate in this imbroglio unkenned is
Of me; my own lament my only bosom-friend is:
Since that my weeping eye for woe still tear-a-spend is,
My head will sure succumb or e'er my grief at end is.

Th 826

The joyous heart keep ever from despair,
Nor on the trial stone life's pleasures wear;
Since no one knows what is to be, we need
At will with wine and love to rest from care.

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