A man of pleasure is a man of pains.

Inhumanity is caught from man, From smiling man.

Who lives to Nature, rarely can be poor ; who lives to fancy, never can be rich.

Heaven wills our happiness, allows our doom.

There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.

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.

Procrastination is the thief of time; year after year it steals, till all are fled, and to the mercies of a moment leaves the vast concerns of an eternal state. At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; knows it at forty, and reforms his plan; at fifty chides his infamous delay, pushes his prudent purpose to resolve; in all the magnanimity of thought, resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same.