The setting sun, and the music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in rememberance more than long things past.

T'is true: there's magic in the web of it.

These earthly godfathers of Heaven's lights, that give a name to every fixed star, have no more profit of their shining nights than those that walk and know not what they are.

Thoughts are but dreams till their effects are tried.

Alas, their love may be call'd appetite. No motion of the liver, but the palate

'Tis better to bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.

It hurts not the tongue to give fair words.