The soul of man was made to walk the skies.

Blest leisure is our curse; like that of Cain, It, makes us wander, wander earth around, To fly that tyrant Thought. As Atlas groan'd The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour.

A friend is worth all hazards we can run.

Horace appears in good humor while he censures, and therefore his censure has the more weight, as supposed to proceed from judgment and not from passion.

They only babble who practise not reflection

Time destroyed Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt.

A Christian is the highest style of man.