Good God! how often are we to die before we go quite off this stage? In every friend we lose a part of ourselves, and the best part.

Party-spirit at best is but the madness of many for the gain of a few.

A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, And greatly falling with a falling state.

Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food, And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.

Beauty draws us with a single hair.

In lazy apathy let stoics boast, their virtue fix'd: 't is fix'd as in a frost; contracted all, retiring to the breast; but strength of mind is exercise, not rest.

Whate'er the talents, or howe'er designed, We hang one jingling padlock on the mind.