When nations are to perish in their sins, 'tis in the Church the leprosy begins.

Far happier are the dead methinks than they who look for death and fear it every day.

We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works die too.

In indolent vacuity of thought.

But still remember, if you mean to please, To press your point with modesty and ease.

Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.

The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.