“Remorse, the fatal egg by pleasure laid, In every bosom where her nest is made, Hatched by the beams of truth, denies him rest, And proves a raging scorpion in his breast.”

Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.

While truths, on which eternal things depend, can hardly find a single friend.

Pleasure admitted in undue degree, enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust Him for His grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face. His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour;

Thus happiness depends, as nature shows, less on exterior things than most suppose.

Time, as he passes us, has a dove’s wing, Unsoil’d, and swift, and of a silken sound.

Tis liberty alone that gives the flower Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume; And we are weeds without it.

Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, Have oft-times no connection.

Glory, built on selfish principles, is shame and guilt.

Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it e’en in age, and at our latest day.

Tea – the cups that cheer but not inebriate.

Skins may differ, but affection Dwells in white and black the same.

The innocent seldom find an uncomfortable pillow.

How happy it is to believe, with a steadfast assurance, that our petitions are heard even while we are making them; and how delightful to meet with a proof of it in the effectual and actual grant of them.

Truth is the golden girdle of the globe.

And natural in gesture; much impress’d Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds May feel it too; affectionate in look, And tender in address, as well becomes A messenger of grace to guilty men.

If you wish success in life, make perseverance your bosom friend.

If you wish to succeed in life, make perseverance your bosom friend, experience your wise counselor, caution your elder brother, and hope your guardian genius.

My father! The sun is my father, and the earth is my mother, and on her bosom I will recline.

They are gifted with the powers of being mothers, but not nursing mothers. Nature gives them bosoms for show, but not for use. So Lady Arabella had a wet-nurse.

America took me into her bosom when there was no longer a country worthy of the name, but in my heart I am German – German in my soul.

Joy all creatures drink At nature’s bosoms.