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

Nor Fame I slight, nor her favors call.

Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, But looks through Nature up to Nature's God.

When I die, I should be ashamed to leave enough to build me a monument if there were a wanting friend above ground. I would enjoy the pleasure of what I give by giving it alive and seeing another enjoy it.

Never elated when someone's oppressed, never dejected when another one's blessed.

There are some solitary wretches who seem to have left the rest of mankind, only, as Eve left Adam, to meet the devil in private.

Remembrance and reflection how allied. What thin partitions divides sense from thought.