Praise, more divine than prayer; prayer points our ready path to heaven; praise is already there.
Leisure is pain; take off our chariot wheels; how heavily we drag the load of life!
The bell strikes one. We take no note of time But from its loss.
We see time’s furrows on another’s brow, And death intrench’d, preparing his assault; How few themselves in that just mirror see!
Time elaborately thrown away.
Nature delights in progress; in advance.
Take God from nature, nothing great is left.
Who lives to Nature, rarely can be poor ; who lives to fancy, never can be rich.
To know the world, not love her, is thy point; She gives but little, nor that little, long.
Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow.
Pity swells the tide of love.
Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes; They love a train, they tread each other’s heel.
A God all mercy is a God unjust.
Where Nature’s end of language is declin’d, And men talk only to conceal the mind.
And friend received with thumps upon the back.
Procrastination is the thief of time: Year after year it steals, till all are fled.
The qualities all in a bee that we meet, In an epigram never should fail; The body should always be little and sweet, And a sting should be felt in its tail.
And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
Be wise with speed; a fool at forty is a fool indeed.
Where, where for shelter shall the guilty fly, When consternation turns the good man pale?