“The only amarantine flower on earth Is virtue.”

But still remember, if you mean to please, To press your point with modesty and ease.

The only true happiness comes from squandering ourselves for a purpose.

I seem forsaken and alone, / I hear the lion roar; / And every door is shut but one, / And that is Mercy’s door.

Ye therefore who love mercy, teach your sons to love it, too.

Men deal with life as children with their play, Who first misuse, then cast their toys away.

Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, but God never will.

He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not color’d like his own, and having pow’r T’ enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.

Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die

Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, Rock’d in the cradle of the western breeze.

The still small voice is wanted.

The cares of today are seldom those of tomorrow, and when we lie down at night we may safely say to most of our troubles, “Ye have done your worst, and we shall see you no more.”

The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear; And something, every day they live, To pity, and perhaps forgive.

O solitude, where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place.

Happy the man who sees a God employed in all the good and ills that checker life.

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa around, And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn

Absence from whom we love is worse than death, and frustrates hope severer than despair.