But love, like wine, gives a tumultuous bliss, Heighten'd indeed beyond all mortal pleasures; But mingles pangs and madness in the bowl.

The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.

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.

An undevout astronomer is mad.

Wouldst thou be famed? have those high acts in view, Brave men would act though scandal would ensue.

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

Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn.