Mine is the night, with all her stars.
At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan.
Man maketh a death which Nature never made.
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.
The course of Nature is the art of God
Be wise with speed; a fool at forty is a fool indeed.