As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.

What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.

We wish our names eternally to live; Wild dream! which ne'er had haunted human thought, Had not our natures been eternal too.

As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, So wit is by politeness sharpest set; Their want of edge from their offence is seen, Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.

O! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, Lost to the noble sallies of the soul! Who think it solitude to be alone.

By night an atheist half-believes in God.

What is revenge but courage to call in our honor's debts, and wisdom to convert others' self-love into our own protection?