'Tis now the summer of your youth: time has not cropped the roses from your cheek, though sorrow long has washed them.

'Tis now the summer of your youth: time has not cropped the roses from your cheek, though sorrow long has washed them.

Can't I another's face commend, Or to her virtues be a friend, But instantly your forehead louers, As if her merit lessen'd yours?

Beauty has wings, and too hastily flies, and love, unrewarded, soon sickens and dies.

I am free in performing an action if I could have done otherwise if I had chosen to.

But from the hoop's bewitching round, Her very shoe has power to wound.

If I am asked 'what is good?' my answer is that good is good, and that is the end of the matter.