Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas! too clear; 'Tis but the funeral of the former year.

Simplicity is the mean between ostentation and rusticity.

While pensive poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep.

Heaven from all creatures hides the book of Fate.

And die of nothing but a rage to live.

But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company.

The dull flat falsehood serves for policy, and in the cunning, truth's itself a lie.