Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.

Since Eve ate the apple, much depends on dinner.

As soon seek roses in December, ice in June, Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff Believe a woman or an epitaph Or any other thing that’s false Before you trust in critics.

Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water! Ye happy mixture of more happy days!

Think'st thou there is no tyranny but that Of blood and chains? The despotism of vice-- The weakness and the wickedness of luxury-- The negligence--the apathy--the evils Of sensual sloth--produces ten thousand tyrants, Whose delegated cruelty surpasses The worst acts of one energetic master, However harsh and hard in his own bearing.

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'Tis that I may not weep.