Pleas'd look forward, pleas'd to look behind,And count each birthday with a grateful mind.

The difference is too nice - Where ends the virtue or begins the vice.

Blessed is the man who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed was the ninth beatitude.

No, make me mistress to the man I love; If there be yet another name more free More fond than mistress, make me that to thee!

Then, at the last and only couplet fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.

A youth of frolic, an old age of cards.

Whoe'er he be That tells my faults, I hate him mortally.