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

If, presume not to God to scan; The proper study of Mankind is Man. Plac'd on this isthmus of a middle state, a being darkly wise, and rudely great.

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

Chiefs who no more in bloody fights engage, But wise through time, and narrative with age, In summer-days like grasshoppers rejoice - A bloodless race, that send a feeble voice.

Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes: the glorious fault of angels and of gods.

These riches are possess'd, but not enjoy'd!

The sound must seem an echo to the sense.