A youth of frolic, an old age of cards.

Sickness is a sort of early old age; it teaches us a diffidence in our earthly state.

Oft in dreams invention we bestow to change a flounce or add a furbelow.

The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed today, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? Pleas'd to the last he crops the flow'ry food, And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood.

Remembrance and reflection how allied. What thin partitions divides sense from thought.

But blind to former as to future fate, what mortal knows his pre-existent state?

Whoe'er he be That tells my faults, I hate him mortally.