They Think Too Little Who Talk Too

Pity Only On Fresh Objects Stays, But With The Tedious Sight Of Woes Decays.

None Would Live Past Years Again, Yet All Hope Pleasure In What Yet Remain; And, From The Dregs Of Life, Think To Receive, What The First Sprightly Running Could Not Give.

Men Met Each Other With Erected Look, The Steps Were Higher That They Took; Friends To Congratulate Their Friends Made Haste, And Long Inveterate Foes Saluted As They Pass'd.

My Right Eye Itches, Some Good Luck Is Near.

Fame Then Was Cheap, And The First Comer Sped; And They Have Kept It Since By Being Dead.