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

This vast and solid earth, that blazing sun, Those skies, thro' which it rolls, must all have end. What then is man? The smallest part of nothing.

Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.

Ah! what is human life? How, like the dial's tardy-moving shade, Day after day slides from us unperceiv'd! The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth; Too subtle is the movement to be seen; Yet soon the hour is up--and we are gone.

Our birth is nothing but our death begun; As tapers waste, that instant they take fire.

The man of wisdom is the man of years.

A Deity believed, is joy begun; A Deity adored, is joy advanced; A Deity beloved, is joy matured. Each branch of piety delight inspires.