Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please, With too much spirit to be e'er at ease, With too much quickness ever to be taught, With too much thinking to have common thought: You purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing but a rage to live.

Extremes in nature equal ends produce; In man they join to some mysterious use.

Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a style, Amaze th' unlearn'd and make the learned smile.

I find myself hoping a total end of all the unhappy divisions of mankind by party-spirit, which at best is but the madness of many for the gain of a few.

Know then this truth, enough for man to know virtue alone is happiness below.

The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.

The scripture in times of disputes is like an open town in times of war, which serves in differently the occasions of both parties.