Sorrow is held the eldest child of sin.
Lust carries her sharp whip At her own girdle.
See, the curse of children! In life they keep us frequently in tears, And in the cold grave leave us in pale fears.
Physicians are like kings- They brook no contradiction.
Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright, But looked to near, have neither heat nor light.
Is not old wine wholesomest, old pippins toothsomest, old wood burn brightest, old linen wash whitest? Old soldiers, sweethearts, are surest, and old lovers are soundest.