Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.
What some call health, if purchased by perpetual anxiety about diet, isn't much better than tedious disease.
Virtue alone is happiness below.
Why has not Man a microscopic eye? For this plain reason, Man is not a Fly. Say what the use, were finer optics giv'n, T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heav'n.
A generous friendship no cold medium knows, Burns with one love, with one resentment glows.