On life's vast ocean diversely we sail. Reasons the card, but passion the gale.

Whate'er the talents, or howe'er designed, We hang one jingling padlock on the mind.

Nothing can be more shocking and horrid than one of our kitchens sprinkled with blood, and abounding with the cries of expiring victims or with the limbs of dead animals scattered or hung up here and there.

Jarring interests of themselves create the according music of a well-mixed state.

So vast is art, so narrow human wit.

Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please, With too much spirit to be e'er at ease, With too much quickness ever to be taught, With too much thinking to have common thought: You purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing but a rage to live.

Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain; awake but one, and in, what myriads rise!