The melancholy joys of evils pass'd, For he who much has suffer'd, much will know.

First you don't want me to get the pony, then you want me to take it back. Make up your mind!

If you serve too many masters, you'll soon suffer.

By turns the nine delight to sing

Tell me, O muse, of travellers far and wide

Reproach is infinite, and knows no end.

I war not with the dead.