The clouds may drop down titles and estates, and wealth may seek us, but wisdom must be sought.

What ardently we wish, we soon believe.

What is a miracle?--'Tis a reproach, 'Tis an implicit satire on mankind; And while it satisfies, it censures too.

Let no man trust the first false step of guilt; it hangs upon a precipice, whose steep descent in last perdition ends.

Tis immortality, 'tis that alone, Amid life's pains, abasements, emptiness, The soul can comfort, elevate, and fill. That only, and that amply this performs.

Thy purpose firm is equal to the deed: Who does the best his circumstance allows Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more.

The man that makes a character, makes foes.