All, as they say, that glitters is not gold.
Plots, true or false, are necessary things, To raise up commonwealths and ruin kings.
Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray; Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.
For mysterious things of faith, rely on the proponent, Heaven's authority.
Old age creeps on us ere we think it nigh.
I maintain, against the enemies of the stage, that patterns of piety, decently represented, may second the precepts.