Men are but men; we did not make ourselves.

The house of laughter makes a house of woe.

Pity swells the tide of love.

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

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.

This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, The twilight of our day, the vestibule; Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, Strong death, alone can heave the massy bar, This gross impediment of clay remove, And make us embryos of existence free.

And all may do what has by man been done.