As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, So wit is by politeness sharpest set; Their want of edge from their offence is seen, Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.
Who can take Death's portrait? The tyrant never sat.
Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die.
Angels are men of a superior kind; Angels are men in lighter habit clad.
Be wise with speed; a fool at forty is a fool indeed.
He mourns the dead who lives as they desire.