Death, only death, can break the lasting chain; And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain

Our judgments, like our watches, none go just alike, yet each believes his own

Cursed be the verse, how well so e'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe.

The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.

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.

It is not so much the being exempt from faults, as having overcome them, that is an advantage to us.

Fine sense and exalted sense are not half so useful as common sense.