A man of eighty has outlived probably three new schools of painting, two of architecture and poetry and a hundred in dress.
Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.
Mark! Where his carnage and his conquests cease, He makes a solitude and calls it-peace!
Critics are already made.
In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.
Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes: Pique her and soothe in turn-soon Passion crowns thy hopes.