But love, like wine, gives a tumultuous bliss, Heighten'd indeed beyond all mortal pleasures; But mingles pangs and madness in the bowl.

Our birth is nothing but our death begun; As tapers waste, that instant they take fire.

Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world.

The blood will follow where the knife is driven, The flesh will quiver where the pincers tear.

The bell strikes one. We take no note of time But from its loss.

In youth, what disappointments of our own making: in age, what disappointments from the nature of things.

A Christian is the highest style of man.