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.

Midway from Nothing to the Deity!

O let me be undone the common way, And have the common comfort to be pity'd, And not be ruin'd in the mask of bliss, And so be envy'd, and be wretched too!

Affliction is the good man's shining scene; prosperity conceals his brightest ray; as night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.

Like our shadows, our wishes lengthen as our sun declines.

Man makes a death which Nature never made. And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.

Think naught a trifle, though it small appear; Small stands the mountain, moments make the year, and trifles life.