On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows, In every rill a sweet instruction flows.

Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, A soldier should be modest as a maid.

Be wise to-day; 't is madness to defer.

The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.

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.

An undevout astronomer is mad.

The man of wisdom is the man of years.