Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform and mortal men lay hold on heaven.

The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay, Provides a home from which to run away.

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

Each moment has its sickle, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Strikes empires from the root.

Ambition! powerful source of good and ill!

If we did but know how little some enjoy of the great things that they possess, there would not be much envy in the world.

The person of wisdom is the person of years.