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

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

Faith goes out through the window when beauty comes in at the door.

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

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

Honesty needs no pains to set itself off.

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