And all may do what has by man been done.

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.

Polite diseases make some idiots vain, Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.

Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow.

The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done

O let me be undone the common way, And have the common comfort to be pity'd, And not be ruin'd in the mask of bliss, And so be envy'd, and be wretched too!

The spirit walks of every day deceased.