Tis immortality, 'tis that alone, Amid life's pains, abasements, emptiness, The soul can comfort, elevate, and fill. That only, and that amply this performs.
As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope's pencil writ.
Polite diseases make some idiots vain, Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.
Pity swells the tide of love.
Life's cares are comforts; such by Heav'n design'd; He that hath none must make them, or be wretched.