Each moment has its sickle, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Strikes empires from the root.
The man that blushes is not quite a brute.
But love, like wine, gives a tumultuous bliss, Heighten'd indeed beyond all mortal pleasures; But mingles pangs and madness in the bowl.
Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.
At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan.
Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.