Sweet instinct leaps; slow reason feebly climbs.

Day buries day; month, month; and year the year: Our life is but a chain of many deaths.

The purpose firm is equal to the deed

The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done

Inhumanity is caught from man, From smiling man.

Affliction is the good man's shining scene; prosperity conceals his brightest ray; as night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.

Fame is the shade of immortality, And in itself a shadow. Soon as caught, Contemn'd; it shrinks to nothing in the grasp.