Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.
Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so; 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.
If its length be not considered a merit, it hath no other.
His love at once and dread instruct our thought; As man He suffer'd and as God He taught.
What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?