What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.

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.

One to destroy, is murder by the law; and gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe; to murder thousands, takes a specious name, 'War's glorious art', and gives immortal fame.

Men should press forward, in fame's glorious chase; Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.

Virtue alone has majesty in death.

Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile.

Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew, She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven.