As soon as we have found the key of life, it opens the gates of death.

Narcissus is the glory of his race: For who does nothing with a better grace?.

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, how complicate, how wonderful is man! Distinguished link in being's endless chain! Midway from nothing to the Deity! Dim miniature of greatness absolute! An heir of glory! A frail child of dust! Helpless immortal! Insect infinite! A worm! A God!

An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.

Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes.

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

A strange alternative * * *Must women have a doctor or a dance?