The soul of man was made to walk the skies.

When pain can't bless, heaven quits us in despair.

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, how complicate, how wonderful is man! Distinguished link in being's endless chain! Midway from nothing to the Deity! Dim miniature of greatness absolute! An heir of glory! A frail child of dust! Helpless immortal! Insect infinite! A worm! A God!

The course of Nature is the art of God

Men should press forward, in fame's glorious chase; Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.

In youth, what disappointments of our own making: in age, what disappointments from the nature of things.

Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.