Our spirits grow gray before our hairs.

Presents, I often say, endear absents.

And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

Ay, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are! From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins, That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war, Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.

Riches are chiefly good because they give us time.

I conceive disgust at these impertinent and misbecoming familiarities inscribed upon your ordinary tombstone.

I like you and your book, ingenious Hone! In whose capacious all-embracing leaves The very marrow of tradition 's shown; And all that history, much that fiction weaves.