How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense, and love the offender, yet detest the offence?
Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.
Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a style, Amaze th' unlearn'd and make the learned smile.
On cold December fragrant chaplets blow, And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.
The lot of man - to suffer and to die.
Wit is the lowest form of humor.