What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?

Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so; 'tis but what we in our autumn do.

Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.

All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made. Stronger by weakness, wiser men become As they draw near to their eternal home: Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view That stand upon the threshold of the new.

Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.

Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.