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

For what I have publish'd, I can only hope to be pardon'd; but for what I have burned, I deserve to be prais'd.

The Dying Christian to His Soul (1712) -Vital spark of heav'nly flame! Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying, Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! Stanza 1.

False happiness is like false money; it passes for a time as well as the true, and serves some ordinary occasions; but when it is brought to the touch, we find the lightness and alloy, and feel the loss.

The sound must seem an echo to the sense.

Be thou the first true merit to befriend, his praise is lost who stays till all commend.

Men would be angels, angels would be gods.