Born Originals, how comes it to pass that we die Copies?

Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes.

Wishing of all employments is the worst

At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan.

We push time from us, and we wish him back; * * * * * * Life we think long and short; death seek and shun.

There is nothing of which men are more liberal than their good advice, be their stock of it ever so small; because it seems to carry in it an intimation of their own influence, importance or worth.

Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? What tho' we wade in Wealth, or soar in Fame? Earth's highest station ends in 'Here he lies;' and 'Dust to dust' concludes the noblest songs.