Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare; And beauty draws us with a single hair.
Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die.
Act well your part, there all the honour lies.
Jarring interests of themselves create the according music of a well-mixed state.
The search of our future being is but a needless, anxious, and haste to be knowing, sooner than we can, what, without all this solicitude, we shall know a little later.
Fickle Fortune reigns, and, undiscerning, scatters crowns and chains.