“Hushed as midnight silence.”

Let grace and goodness be the principal loadstone of thy affections.

God never made his work for man to mend.

Luxurious kings are to their people lost, They live like drones, upon the public cost.

There’s a proud modesty in merit; averse from asking, and resolved to pay ten times the gifts it asks.

Dreams are but interludes that fancy makes… Sometimes forgotten things, long cast behind Rush forward in the brain, and come to mind.

Repentance is but want of power to sin.

The love of liberty with life is given, And life itself the inferior gift of Heaven.

Virtue in distress, and vice in triumph make atheists of mankind.

Nothing to build, and all things to destroy.

But how can finite grasp Infinity?

Boldness is a mask for fear, however great.

Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray; Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.

Love is a passion Which kindles honor into noble acts.

Youth, beauty, graceful action seldom fail: But common interest always will prevail; And pity never ceases to be shown To him who makes the people’s wrongs his own.

Of all the tyrannies on human kind the worst is that which persecutes the mind.

Truth is never to be expected from authors whose understanding is warped with enthusiasm.