Who lives to Nature, rarely can be poor ; who lives to fancy, never can be rich.
The chamber where the good man meets his fate Is privileg'd beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven.
Oh, how portentous is prosperity! How comet-like, it threatens while it shines.
Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world.
He mourns the dead who lives as they desire.
What is a miracle?--'Tis a reproach, 'Tis an implicit satire on mankind; And while it satisfies, it censures too.