If solid happiness we prize, Within our breast this jewel lies; And they are fools who roam: The world has nothing to bestow, From our own selves our joys must flow, And that dear hut, our home. Cotton.The Fireside, Verse 3.
Oh happiness! our beings end and aim! Good, pleasure, ease, content! whateer thy name: That something still which prompts th eternal sigh, For which we bear to live, or dare to die. Pope.Essay on Man, Epistle IV. Line 1.
Happy the man, and he alone, Who, master of himself, can say, To-day at least hath been my own, For I have clearly lived to-day: Then let to-morrows clouds arise, Or purer suns oerspread the cheerful skies. Francis Horace, Book III. Ode 29; Dryden.To Sir John Beaumont.