Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas! too clear; 'Tis but the funeral of the former year.
On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, Which Jews might kiss and infidels adore.
Love the offender, yet detest the offense.
Be not the first by whom the new are tried, Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.
'Tis not enough your counsel still be true; Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do.
To be angry is to revenge the faults of others on ourselves.