We become hypochondriacs.

Our very health grows an object of painful possession.

We are so desirous to be well (for what is retirement without health ?) that we are ever fancying ourselves ill; and, like the man in the 'Spectator,' we weigh ourselves daily, and live but by grains and scruples.

Retirement is happy only for the poet, for to him it is _not_ retirement.

He secedes from one world but to gain another, and he finds not _ennui_ in seclusion: why?
Not because seclusion hath _repose_, but because it hath _occupation_.