We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works die too.
His wit invites you by his looks to come, But when you knock, it never is at home.
Not to understand a treasure's worth till time has stole away the slighted good, is cause of half the poverty we feel, and makes the world the wilderness it is.
To follow foolish precedents, and wink With both our eyes, is easier than to think.
No one was ever scolded out of their sins.
A man renowned for repartee will seldom scruple to make free with friendship's finest feeling, will thrust a dagger at your breast, and say he wounded you in jest, by way of balm for healing.