Youth is not rich in time; it may be poor; Part with it as with money, sparing; pay No moment but in purchase of its worth, And what it's worth, ask death-beds; they can tell.

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man!... Midway from nothing to the Deity!

A man of pleasure is a man of pains.

What is revenge but courage to call in our honor's debts, and wisdom to convert others' self-love into our own protection?

Angels are men of a superior kind; Angels are men in lighter habit clad.

Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.

Praise, more divine than prayer; prayer points our ready path to heaven; praise is already there.