Youth is not rich in time; it may be poor; Part with it as with money, sparing; pay No moment but in purchase of its worth, And what it's worth, ask death-beds; they can tell.

To frown at pleasure, and to smile in pain.

We cry for mercy to the next amusement, The next amusement mortgages our fields

Who knows if Shakespeare might not have thought less if he had read more?

Youth is not rich in time; it may be poor; Part with it as with money, sparing; pay No moment but in purchase of its worth, And what it's worth, ask death-beds; they can tell.

Groan under gold, yet weep for want of bread.

Born Originals, how comes it to pass that we die Copies?