Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die.

Devotion's self shall steal a thought from heaven.

Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell, For sober, studious days!

Lo! The poor Indian, whose untutored mind sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind.

When we are young, we are slavishly employed in procuring something whereby we may live comfortably when we grow old; and when we are old, we perceive it is too late to live as we proposed.

A work of art that contains theories is like an object on which the price tag has been left.

Fondly we think we honor merit then, when we but praise ourselves in other men.