And new-laid eggs, which Baucis' busy care Turned by a gentle fire, and roasted rare. - John Dryden

When I consider life, 't is all a cheat.
Yet fool'd with hope, men favour the deceit;
Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay.
To-morrow 's falser than the former day;
Lies worse, and while it says we shall be blest
With some new joys, cuts off what we possest.
Strange cozenage! 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.

An horrid stillness first invades the ear,
And in that silence we the tempest fear.

Thus, in a Pageant Show, a Plot is made;
And Peace it self is War in Masquerade.