Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age.

Fortune, that with malicious joyDoes man her slave oppress,Proud of her office to destroy,Is seldom pleasd to bless.

To so perverse a sex all grace is vain.

Many things impossible to thought have been by need to full perfection brought.

For all the happiness mankind can gain Is not in pleasure, but in rest from pain.

Beware the fury of a patient man.

He is a perpetual fountain of good sense.