A foe to God was never true friend to man.
Procrastination is the thief of time: Year after year it steals, till all are fled, And to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
How blessings brighten as they take their flight.
Too low they build who build below the skies.
A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.
Blest leisure is our curse; like that of Cain, It, makes us wander, wander earth around, To fly that tyrant Thought. As Atlas groan’d The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour.
A foe to God ne’er was true friend to man, Some sinister intent taints all he does.
Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o’er creation.
Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen’d to the sun.
To frown at pleasure, and to smile in pain.
Ambition! powerful source of good and ill!
Life’s cares are comforts; such by Heav’n design’d; He that hath none must make them, or be wretched.
Man wants little, nor that little long.
An undevout astronomer is mad.
The man that blushes is not quite a brute.
Sweet instinct leaps; slow reason feebly climbs.