A foe to God ne'er was true friend to man, Some sinister intent taints all he does.
Polite diseases make some idiots vain, Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.
Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn.
We nothing know, but what is marvellous; Yet what is marvellous, we can't believe.
How blessings brighten as they take their flight.
Angels are men of a superior kind; Angels are men in lighter habit clad.