A perfect woman's but a softer man.
A youth of frolic, an old age of cards.
Chiefs who no more in bloody fights engage, But wise through time, and narrative with age, In summer-days like grasshoppers rejoice - A bloodless race, that send a feeble voice.
Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear.
A perfect judge will read each word of wit with the same spirit that its author writ.
Women, as they are like riddles in being unintelligible, so generally resemble them in this, that they please us no longer once we know them.