Some old men, continually praise the time of their youth. In fact, you would almost think that there were no fools in their days, but unluckily they themselves are left as an example.

Who dies in youth and vigour, dies the best.

Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.

The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.

A good-natured man has the whole world to be happy out of.

Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food, And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.

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.