Each moment has its sickle, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Strikes empires from the root.
Friendship's the wine of life.
None think the great unhappy, but the great.
Let no man trust the first false step of guilt; it hangs upon a precipice, whose steep descent in last perdition ends.
Groan under gold, yet weep for want of bread.
The spider's most attenuated thread Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie On earthly bliss; it breaks at every breeze.