Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath, The clamtrous lapwings feel the leaden death; Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare They fall, and leave their little lives in air.
At every trifle take offense, that always shows great pride or little sense.
A field of glory is a field for all.
The life of a wit is a warfare upon earth.
The good must merit God's peculiar care; But who but God can tell us who they are?
Whate'er the talents, or howe'er designed, We hang one jingling padlock on the mind.