At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan.
We cry for mercy to the next amusement, The next amusement mortgages our fields
Live now; be damn'd hereafter.
He that's ungrateful has no guilt but one; All other crimes may pass for virtues in him.
Angels are men of a superior kind; Angels are men in lighter habit clad.
Man wants but little, nor that little long; How soon must he resign his very dust, Which frugal nature lent him for an hour!