Let no man trust the first false step of guilt; it hangs upon a precipice, whose steep descent in last perdition ends.

Read nature; nature is a friend to truth.

The spirit walks of every day deceased.

In an active life is sown the seed of wisdom; but he who reflects not, never reaps; has no harvest from it, but carries the burden of age without the wages of experience; nor knows himself old, but from his infirmities, the parish register, and the contempt of mankind. And age, if it has not esteem, has nothing.

We cry for mercy to the next amusement, The next amusement mortgages our fields

A foe to God ne'er was true friend to man, Some sinister intent taints all he does.

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.