Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well?
Who dies in youth and vigour, dies the best.
Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
Oh, blindness to the future! kindly giv'n, That each may fill the circle mark'd by heaven.
Rogues in rags are kept in countenance by rogues in ruffles.
Conceit is to nature what paint is to beauty; it is not only needless, but it impairs what it would improve.