Let fortune do her worst, whatever she makes us lose, so long as she never makes us lose our honesty and our independence.

Where's the man who counsel can bestow, still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know.

What dire offence from am'rous causes springs, What mighty contests rise from trivial things.

"With ev'ry pleasing, ev'ry prudent part, Say, what can Chloe want?"-She wants a heart.

Conceit is to nature what paint is to beauty; it is not only needless, but it impairs what it would improve.

Oh, blindness to the future! kindly giv'n, That each may fill the circle mark'd by heaven.

Blessed is the man who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed was the ninth beatitude.