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

We bleed, we tremble; we forget, we smile - The mind turns fool, before the cheek is dry

The chamber where the good man meets his fate Is privileg'd beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven.

As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.

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

By all means use some time to be alone.

Ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part, is peace.