A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.
Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears The palm, "That all men are about to live."
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.
The person of wisdom is the person of years.
Inhumanity is caught from man, From smiling man.
Mine is the night, with all her stars.