Men should press forward, in fame's glorious chase; Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.
Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? What tho' we wade in Wealth, or soar in Fame? Earth's highest station ends in 'Here he lies;' and 'Dust to dust' concludes the noblest songs.
Revere thyself, and yet thyself despise
Nothing in Nature, much less conscious being, Was e'er created solely for itself.
Prayer ardent opens heaven.
The man that blushes is not quite a brute.