The Flower's Are Gone When The Fruits

But Blind To Former As To Future Fate, What Mortal Knows His Pre-existent State?

Vices And Virtues Are Of A Strange Nature, For The More We Have, The Fewer We Think We Have.

In Vain Sedate Reflections We Would Make When Half Our Knowledge We Must Snatch, Not Take.

Rogues In Rags Are Kept In Countenance By Rogues In Ruffles.

Count All Th' Advantage Prosperous Vice Attains, 'tis But What Virtue Flies From And Disdains: And Grant The Bad What Happiness They Would, One They Must Want--which Is, To Pass For Good.