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

Praise, more divine than prayer; prayer points our ready path to heaven; praise is already there.

Affliction is the good man's shining scene; prosperity conceals his brightest ray; as night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.

Time elaborately thrown away.

Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform and mortal men lay hold on heaven.

An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.

Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile.