Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead; For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

Nor Fame I slight, nor her favors call.

See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled, Mountains of Casuistry heap'd o'er her head! Philosophy, that lean'd on Heav'n before, Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. Physic of Metaphysic begs defence, And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense! See Mystery to Mathematics fly!

I begin where most people end, with a full conviction of the emptiness of all sorts of ambition, and the unsatisfactory nature of all human pleasures.

So upright Quakers please both man and God.

Say first, of god above or man below; what can we reason but from what we know.

Talk what you will of taste, my friend, you'll find two of a face as soon as of a mind.