And empty heads console with empty sound.

Women, as they are like riddles in being unintelligible, so generally resemble them in this, that they please us no longer once we know them.

Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.

Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please, With too much spirit to be e'er at ease, With too much quickness ever to be taught, With too much thinking to have common thought: You purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing but a rage to live.

Age and want sit smiling at the gate.

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart; To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each Seene, and be what they behold: For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage.

Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne.