The bell strikes One. We take no note of time But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours.

It is great and manly to disdain disguise; it shows our spirit and proves our strength.

I've known my lady (for she loves a tune) For fevers take an opera in June: And, though perhaps you'll think the practice bold, A midnight park is sov'reign for a cold.

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.

Like our shadows, our wishes lengthen as our sun declines.

Angels are men of a superior kind; Angels are men in lighter habit clad.

Titles are marks of honest men, and wise; The fool or knave that wears a title lies.