'T is impious in a good man to be sad.

'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.

Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform and mortal men lay hold on heaven.

Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world.

Old men love novelties; the last arriv'd Still pleases best; the youngest steals their smiles.

The person of wisdom is the person of years.

Who combats with a brother, wounds himself.