A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn.

Pride is still aiming at the best houses: Men would be angels, angels would be gods. Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell; aspiring to be angels men rebel.

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.

All looks yellow to a jaundiced eye.

Charm strikes the sight, but merit wins the soul.

Light quirks of music, broken and uneven,Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heav'n.

He who serves his brother best gets nearer God than all the rest.