I always arrive late at the office, but I make up for it by leaving early.

A garden was the primitive prison, till man with Promethean felicity and boldness, luckily sinned himself out of it.

I give thee all,-I can no more, Though poor the off'ring be; My heart and lute are all the store That I can bring to thee.

No work is worse than overwork; the mind preys on itself,--the most unwholesome of food.

A laugh is worth a hundred groans in any market.

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

For with G. D., to be absent from the body is sometimes (not to speak profanely) to be present with the Lord.