Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old.

Not to go back is somewhat to advance, and men must walk, at least, before they dance.

Fear not the anger of the wise to raise; Those best can bear reproof who merit praise.

All nature mourns, the skies relent in showers; hushed are the birds, and closed the drooping flowers.

The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.

Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine; Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine! Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restored; Light dies before thy uncreating word: Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall; And universal darkness buries all.

A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn.