They most the world enjoy who least admire.
Ne’er to meet, or ne’er to part, is peace.
As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, So wit is by politeness sharpest set; Their want of edge from their offence is seen, Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.
Heaven’s Sovereign saves all beings but himselfThat hideous sight,-a naked human heart.
Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile.
One eye on death, and one full fix’d on heaven.
A God alone can comprehend a God.
A Deity believed, is joy begun; A Deity adored, is joy advanced; A Deity beloved, is joy matured. Each branch of piety delight inspires.
Some go to Church, proud humbly to repent, And come back much more guilty than they went: One way they look, another way they steer, Pray to the Gods; but would have Mortals hear; And when their sins they set sincerely down, They’ll find that their Religion has been one.
O let me be undone the common way, And have the common comfort to be pity’d, And not be ruin’d in the mask of bliss, And so be envy’d, and be wretched too!
When men of infamy to grandeur soar, They light a torch to show their shame the more.
Youth is not rich in time; it may be poor; Part with it as with money, sparing; pay No moment but in purchase of its worth, And what it’s worth, ask death-beds; they can tell.
Some wits, too, like oracles, deal in ambiguities, but not with equal success; for though ambiguities are the first excellence of an imposter, they are the last of a wit.
A tardy vengeance shares the tyrant’s guilt.
The bell strikes One. We take no note of time But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours.
But love, like wine, gives a tumultuous bliss, Heighten’d indeed beyond all mortal pleasures; But mingles pangs and madness in the bowl.
Who gives an empire, by the gift defeats All end of giving; and procures contempt Instead of gratitude.
This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, The twilight of our day, the vestibule; Life’s theatre as yet is shut, and death, Strong death, alone can heave the massy bar, This gross impediment of clay remove, And make us embryos of existence free.
Who can take Death’s portrait? The tyrant never sat.
Men are but men; we did not make ourselves.