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.
Nature does require her times of preservation.
Pain pays the income of each precious thing.
Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? And, live we how we can, yet die we must.
A woman's thought runs before her actions.
I am not bound to please thee with my answer.