Prayer ardent opens heaven.

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

Narcissus is the glory of his race: For who does nothing with a better grace?.

Angels are men of a superior kind; Angels are men in lighter habit clad.

Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope's pencil writ.

With fame, in just proportion, envy grows.

In an active life is sown the seed of wisdom; but he who reflects not, never reaps; has no harvest from it, but carries the burden of age without the wages of experience; nor knows himself old, but from his infirmities, the parish register, and the contempt of mankind. And age, if it has not esteem, has nothing.