Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas! too clear; 'Tis but the funeral of the former year.
Wholesome solitude, the nurse of sense!
The same ambition can destroy or save, and make a patriot as it makes a knave.
On cold December fragrant chaplets blow, And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.
Ask you what provocation I have had? The strong antipathy of good to bad.
A gen'rous heart repairs a sland'rous tongue.