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Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler, And daughters sometimes run off with the butler.

Farce follow'd Comedy, and reach'd her prime. In ever laughing Foote's fantastic time, Mad wag! who pardon'd none, nor spared the best, And turn'd some very serious things to jest. Nor church nor state escaped his public sneers, Arms nor the gown, priests, lawyers, volunteers, Alas, poor Yorick! now forever mute! Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote. We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes Ape the swoln dialogue of kings and queens, When Chrononhotonthelogos must die, And Arthur struts in mimic majesty.

As good as a play.

Not to admire, is all the art I know To make men happy, or to keep them so. Thus Horace wrote we all know long ago, And thus Pope quotes the precept to re teach From his translation, but had none admired, Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired?

And these vicissitudes come best in youth, For when they happen at a riper age, People are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth, And wonder Providence is not more sage. Adversity is the first path to truth: He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage, Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty, Has won experience which is deem'd so weighty.

Adversity is the first path to truth.

She had a good opinion of advice, Like all who give and eke receive it gratis, For which small thanks are still the market price, Even where the article at highest rate is.

Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.

What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each love one blotted from life's page, And be alone on earth as I am now.

He has grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life. So that no wonder waits him.

. . . Years steal Fire from the mind, as vigor from the limb; And life's enchanted cut but sparkles near the brim.

Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo, Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe!

Just as old age is creeping on space, And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, But in good company--the gout or stone.

My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone! - Lord Byron ,

Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred.

Around his form his loose long robe was thrown, And wrapt a breast bestowed on heaven alone.

Think not I am what I appear.

And gazed around them to the left and right With the prophetic eye of appetite.

Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste.

'Twas blow for blow, disputing inch by inch, For one would not retreat, nor t'other flinch.