When Bounteous Autumn Rears Her Head, He

Old As I Am, For Ladies' Love Unfit, The Power Of Beauty I Remember Yet.

Every Language Is So Full Of Its Own Proprieties That What Is Beautiful In One Is Often Barbarous, Nay, Sometimes Nonsense, In Another.

Old Age Creeps On Us Ere We Think It Nigh.

We Must Beat The Iron While It Is Hot, But We May Polish It At Leisure.

Ill Writers Are Usually The Sharpest Censors.