Old as I am, for ladies' love unfit, The power of beauty I remember yet.

For they can conquer who believe they can.

Whence but from Heaven, could men unskill'd in arts, In several ages born, in several parts, Weave such agreeing truths? or how, or why Should all conspire to cheat us with a lie?

None but the brave deserves the fair.

(Dance is) the poetry of the foot.

For danger levels man and brute And all are fellows in their need.

Death ends our woes, and the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene.

Of no distemper, of no blast he died But fell like autumn fruit that mellow'd long.

Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow; He who would search for pearls must dive below.

Reason saw not, till Faith sprung the Light.