Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.

Die of a rose in aromatic pain.

Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food, And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.

Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain; awake but one, and in, what myriads rise!

Some men's wit is like a dark lantern, which serves their own turn and guides them their own way, but is never known (according to the Scripture phrase) either to shine forth before men, or to glorify their Father in heaven.

Good God! how often are we to die before we go quite off this stage? In every friend we lose a part of ourselves, and the best part.

Therefore they who say our thoughts are not our own because they resemble the Ancients, may as well say our faces are not our own, because they are like our Fathers: And indeed it is very unreasonable, that people should expect us to be Scholars, and yet be angry to find us so.