'T is impious in a good man to be sad.

Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.

Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world.

Polite diseases make some idiots vain, Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.

The clouds may drop down titles and estates, and wealth may seek us, but wisdom must be sought.

The man of wisdom is the man of years.

Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile.