The season when to come, and when to go, to sing, or cease to sing, we never know.
The lot of man - to suffer and to die.
Condition, circumstance, is not the thing; Bliss is the same in subject or in king.
'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call, But the joint force and full result of all.
Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
In men, we various ruling passions find; In women, two almost divide the kind Those, only fixed, they first or last obey, The love of pleasure, and the love of sway.