The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, Reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart.
As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
Who knows if Shakespeare might not have thought less if he had read more?
Think naught a trifle, though it small appear; Small stands the mountain, moments make the year, and trifles life.
Read nature; nature is a friend to truth.
We see time's furrows on another's brow, And death intrench'd, preparing his assault; How few themselves in that just mirror see!