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

Dear, damned, distracting town, farewell! Thy fools no more I'll tease: This year in peace, ye critics, dwell, Ye harlots, sleep at ease!

Not to go back is somewhat to advance, and men must walk, at least, before they dance.

Man never thinks himself happy, but when he enjoys those things which others want or desire.

How do we know that we have a right to kill creatures that we are so little above, as dogs, for our curiosity or even for some use to us?

So upright Quakers please both man and God.

The zeal of fools offends at any time.