On Invalids.
Far happier are the dead, methinks, than they
Who look for death, and fear it every day.
On the Astrologers.
The astrologers did all alike presage
My uncle's dying in extreme old age;
One only disagreed. But he was wise,
And spoke not till he heard the funeral cries.
On an Old Woman.
Mycilla dyes her locks, 'tis said:
But 'tis a foul aspersion;
She buys them black; they therefore need
No subsequent immersion.
On Flatterers.
No mischief worthier of our fear
In nature can be found
Than friendship, in ostent sincere,
But hollow and unsound.
For lull'd into a dangerous dream
We close infold a foe,
Who strikes, when most secure we seem,
The inevitable blow.