Nature meant me a wife, a silly harmless household Dove, fond without art; and kind without deceit.
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All human things are subject to decay,And, when Fate summons, monarchs must obeyThis Flecknoe found, who like Augustus youngWas call'd to empire, and had govern'd longIn prose and verse, was own'd, without disputeThrough all the realms of nonsense, absolute.
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Better shun the bait, than struggle in the snare.
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Men are but children of a larger growth, Our appetites as apt to change as theirs, And full as craving too, and full as vain.
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All human things are subject to decay, And, when Fate summons, monarchs must obey; This Flecknoe found, who like Augustus young Was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long: In prose and verse, was own'd, without dispute Through all the realms of nonsense, absolute.
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Nor is the people's judgement always true; The most may err as grossly as the few.
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Fortune, that with malicious joyDoes man her slave oppress,Proud of her office to destroy,Is seldom pleasd to bless.
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Like pilgrims to th'appointed place we tend; The world's an inn, and death the journey's end.
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For they conquer who believe they can.
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Beware the fury of a patient man.
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When I consider life, it is all a cheat. Yet fooled with hope, people favor this deceit.
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Dreams are but interludes that fancy makes... Sometimes forgotten things, long cast behind Rush forward in the brain, and come to mind.
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Like pilgrims to th' appointed place we tend; The world's an inn, and death the journey's end.
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And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.
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But far more numerous was the herd of such, Who think too little and who talk too much.
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Like pilgrims to the appointed place we tend; The world's an inn, and death the journey's end.
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Let grace and goodness be the principal loadstone of thy affections. For love which hath ends, will have an end whereas that which is founded on true virtue, will always continue.
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But far more numerous was the herd of such, Who think too little and who talk too much.
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Happy the man, and happy he alone, He, who can call to-day his own He who, secure within, can say, To-morrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.
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The people have a right supremeTo make their kings, for Kings are made for them.All Empire is no more than Pow'r in Trust,Which when resum'd, can be no longer just.Successionm for the general good design'd,In its own wrong a Nation cannot bind.
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How can finite grasp infinity
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Your love by ours we measure Till we have lost our treasure, But dying is a pleasure, When living is a pain.
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Happy the man, and happy he alone, He, who can call to-day his own: He who, secure within, can say, To-morrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.
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Look around the habitable world, how few Know their own good, or knowing it, pursue.
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A mob is the scum that rises upmost when the nation boils.
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Beware of the fury of the patient man.
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Let grace and goodness be the principal loadstone of thy affections. For love which hath ends, will have an end; whereas that which is founded on true virtue, will always continue.
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Oh that my Pow'r to Saving were confin
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We first make our habits, and then our habits make us.
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Death in itself is nothing but we fear To be we know not what, we know not where.
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