To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite, who never mentions hell to ears polite.

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

Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please, With too much spirit to be e'er at ease, With too much quickness ever to be taught, With too much thinking to have common thought: You purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing but a rage to live.

A field of glory is a field for all.

Education forms the common mind.

The young disease, that must subdue at length, Grows with his growth, and strengthens with his strength.

chaos of thought and passion, all confus'd.