Tomorrow to fresh woods, and pastures new

At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue; / Tomorrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray / Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still.

Grass is greener in other pastures

Happy the man, and happy he alone, He, who can call to-day his own: He who, secure within, can say, Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have liv'd today.

Trust on and think To-morrow will repay; To-morrow's falser than the former day; Lies worse; and while it says, we shall be blest With some new Joys, cuts off what we possest.