Old As I Am, For Ladies' Love

He Who Trusts Secrets To A Servant Makes Him His Master

'tis A Good Thing To Laugh At Any Rate; And If A Straw Can Tickle A Man, It Is An Instrument Of Happiness.

And That One Hunting, Which The Devil Design'd For One Fair Female, Lost Him Half The Kind.

Of No Distemper, Of No Blast He Died, But Fell Like Autumn Fruit That Mellow'd Long: Even Wonder'd At, Because He Dropp'd No Sooner. Fate Seem'd To Wind Him Up For Fourscore Years; Yet Freshly Ran He On Ten Winters More; Till Like A Clock Worn Out With Eating Time, The Wheels Of Weary Life At Last Stood Still.

War Seldom Enters But Where Wealth Allures.