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

For when success a lover's toil attends,Few ask, if fraud or force attain'd his ends

I am satisfied to trifle away my time, rather than let it stick by me.

Consult the genius of the place, that paints as you plant, and as you work.

Men, some to business, some to pleasure take; But every woman is at heart a rake.

All nature is but art unknown to thee.

Fickle Fortune reigns, and, undiscerning, scatters crowns and chains.