To know the world, not love her, is thy point; She gives but little, nor that little, long.

The chamber where the good man meets his fate Is privileg'd beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven.

Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.

They build too low who build beneath the skies.

O! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, Lost to the noble sallies of the soul! Who think it solitude to be alone.

'T is impious in a good man to be sad.

Who lives to Nature, rarely can be poor ; who lives to fancy, never can be rich.