Man wants but little, nor that little long; How soon must he resign his very dust, Which frugal nature lent him for an hour!

Think naught a trifle, though it small appear; Small stands the mountain, moments make the year, and trifles life.

A dedication is a wooden leg.

Poor in abundance, famish'd at a feast.

'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.

This vast and solid earth, that blazing sun, Those skies, thro' which it rolls, must all have end. What then is man? The smallest part of nothing.

The spirit walks of every day deceased.