Our passions are like convulsion fits, which, though they make us stronger for a time, leave us the weaker ever after.

I find myself hoping a total end of all the unhappy divisions of mankind by party-spirit, which at best is but the madness of many for the gain of a few.

The bookful blockhead ignorantly read, With loads of learned lumber in his head, With his own tongue still edifies his ears, And always list'ning to himself appears. All books he reads, and all he reads assails.

Get place and wealth, if possible with grace; if not, by any means get wealth and place.

To the Elysian shades dismiss my soul, where no carnation fades.

No craving void left aching in the soul.

But blind to former as to future fate, what mortal knows his pre-existent state?