Born originals, how comes it to pass that we die copies? That meddling ape imitation, as soon as we come to years of indiscretion, (so let me speak,) snatches the pen, and blots out nature's mark of separation, cancels her kind intention, destroys all mental individuality. The lettered world no longer consists of singulars: it is a medley, a mass; and a hundred books, at bottom, are but one.

If we did but know how little some enjoy of the great things that they possess, there would not be much envy in the world.

Time elaborately thrown away.

One eye on death, and one full fix'd on heaven.

When pain can't bless, heaven quits us in despair.

Affliction is the good man's shining scene; prosperity conceals his brightest ray; as night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.

Who can take Death's portrait? The tyrant never sat.