But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.
Mine is the night, with all her stars.
Be wise with speed; a fool at forty is a fool indeed.
Take God from nature, nothing great is left.
Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.
When men once reach their autumn, sickly joys fall off apace, as yellow leaves from trees