They build too low who build beneath the skies.

None think the great unhappy, but the great.

The blood will follow where the knife is driven, The flesh will quiver where the pincers tear.

The maid that loves goes out to sea upon a shattered plank, and puts her trust in miracles for safety.

Give me, indulgent gods with mind serene, And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene, No splendid poverty, no smiling care, No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there.

Men before you have quit smoking - you can too!

Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.