Some people have a knack of putting upon you gifts of no real value, to engage you to substantial gratitude. We thank them for nothing.

English physicians kill you, the French let you die.

Judge not man by his outward manifestation of faith; for some there are who tremblingly reach out shaking hands to the guidance of faith; others who stoutly venture in the dark their human confidence, their leader, which they mistake for faith; some whose hope totters upon crutches; others who stalk into futurity upon stilts. The difference is chiefly constitutional with them.

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

Oh, ever thus, from childhood's hour, I 've seen my fondest hopes decay; I never loved a tree or flower But 't was the first to fade away. I never nurs'd a dear gazelle, To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well And love me, it was sure to die.

The vices of some men are magnificent.

When true hearts lie wither'd And fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit This bleak world alone?