Whatever is, is in its causes just.
Few know the use of life before 'tis past.
Among our crimes oblivion may be set.
Fortune, that with malicious joyDoes man her slave oppress,Proud of her office to destroy,Is seldom pleasd to bless.
For those whom God to ruin has design'd, He fits for fate, and first destroys their mind.
Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age.