Where, where for shelter shall the guilty fly, When consternation turns the good man pale?
At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan.
Ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part, is peace.
A man I knew who lived upon a smile, And well it fed him; he look'd plump and fair, While rankest venom foam'd through every vein.
But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.
A friend is worth all hazards we can run.