Joys season'd high, and tasting strong of guilt.

In youth, what disappointments of our own making: in age, what disappointments from the nature of things.

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

The man that makes a character, makes foes.

The soft whispers of the God in man.

Praise, more divine than prayer; prayer points our ready path to heaven; praise is already there.

The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, Reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart.