…So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky

Pleasure never comes sincere to man; but lent by heaven upon hard usury.

To die is landing on some distant shore.

Bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense, But good men starve for want of impudence.

Few know the use of life before 'tis past.

Trust reposed in noble natures obliges them the more.

Genius must be born, and never can be taught.