Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.

Nature delights in progress; in advance.

What ardently we wish, we soon believe.

O! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, Lost to the noble sallies of the soul! Who think it solitude to be alone.

The purpose firm is equal to the deed

Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile.

We see time's furrows on another's brow, And death intrench'd, preparing his assault; How few themselves in that just mirror see!