An undevout astronomer is mad.

What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.

Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.

The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done

Where, where for shelter shall the guilty fly, When consternation turns the good man pale?

To know the world, not love her, is thy point; She gives but little, nor that little, long.

Creation sleeps! 'T is as the general pulse Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause,- An awful pause! prophetic of her end.