The house of laughter makes a house of woe.
They only babble who practise not reflection
Like our shadows, our wishes lengthen as our sun declines.
Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes.
A foe to God ne'er was true friend to man, Some sinister intent taints all he does.
I've known my lady (for she loves a tune) For fevers take an opera in June: And, though perhaps you'll think the practice bold, A midnight park is sov'reign for a cold.