“Those who write ill, and they who ne’er durst write, Turn critics out of mere revenge and spite.”

All flowers will droop in the absence of the sun that waked their sweets.

Sweet is pleasure after pain.

Go miser go, for money sell your soul. Trade wares for wares and trudge from pole to pole, So others may say when you are dead and gone. See what a vast estate he left his son.

He look’d in years, yet in his years were seen A youthful vigor, and autumnal green.

None but the brave deserve the fair.

Swift was the race, but short the time to run.

Deathless laurel is the victor’s due.

Fame then was cheap, and the first comer sped; And they have kept it since by being dead.

The bravest men are subject most to chance.

When we view elevated ideas of Nature, the result of that view is admiration, which is always the cause of pleasure.

Love is not in our choice but in our fate.

When a man’s life is under debate, The judge can ne’er too long deliberate.

Happy the man, and happy he alone, he who can call today his own; he who, secure within, can say, tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

What precious drops are those, Which silently each other’s track pursue, Bright as young diamonds in their faint dew?

Few know the use of life before ’tis past.

A happy genius is the gift of nature.