Affliction is the good man's shining scene; prosperity conceals his brightest ray; as night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
Virtue alone has majesty in death.
Where, where for shelter shall the guilty fly, When consternation turns the good man pale?
They build too low who build beneath the skies.
Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.
'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.