Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age.
She, though in full-blown flower of glorious beauty, Grows cold even in the summer of her age.
How blessed is he, who leads a country life, Unvex'd with anxious cares, and void of strife! Who studying peace, and shunning civil rage, Enjoy'd his youth, and now enjoys his age: All who deserve his love, he makes his own; And, to be lov'd himself, needs only to be known.
Three poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd; The next, in majesty; in both the last. The force of Nature could no further go; To make a third, she join'd the former two.
Arts and sciences in one and the same century have arrived at great perfection; and no wonder, since every age has a kind of universal genius, which inclines those that live in it to some particular studies; the work then, being pushed on by many hands, must go forward.
For age but tastes of pleasures youth devours.
Inspire the Vocal Brass, Inspire; The World is past its Infant Age: Arms and Honour, Arms and Honour, Set the Martial Mind on Fire, And kindle Manly Rage.
One of the greatest, most noble, and most sublime poems which either this age or nation has produced.
Heaven be thanked, we live in such an age, When no man dies for love, but on the stage.
Is it not evident, in these last hundred years (when the Study of Philosophy has been the business of all the Virtuosi in Christendome) that almost a new Nature has been revealed to us? that more errours of the School have been detected, more useful Experiments in Philosophy have been made, more Noble Secrets in Opticks, Medicine, Anatomy, Astronomy, discover'd, than in all those credulous and doting Ages from Aristotle to us? So true it is that nothing spreads more fast than Science, when rightly and generally cultivated.
Every age has a kind of universal genius, which inclines those that live in it to some particular studies.
Reason is a crutch for age, but youth is strong enough to walk alone.
Virgil and Horace [were] the severest writers of the severest age.
What, start at this! when sixty years have spread. Their grey experience o'er thy hoary head? Is this the all observing age could gain? Or hast thou known the world so long in vain?
These are the effects of doting age,--vain doubts and idle cares and over caution.
Old age creeps on us ere we think it nigh.
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