Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.
Sweet instinct leaps; slow reason feebly climbs.
Friendship's the wine of life: but friendship new... is neither strong nor pure.
We bleed, we tremble; we forget, we smile - The mind turns fool, before the cheek is dry
The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay, Provides a home from which to run away.
All men think that all men are mortal but themselves.