If we did but know how little some enjoy of the great things that they possess, there would not be much envy in the world.

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.

The man that blushes is not quite a brute.

We bleed, we tremble; we forget, we smile - The mind turns fool, before the cheek is dry

Narcissus is the glory of his race: For who does nothing with a better grace?.

Live now; be damn'd hereafter.

Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears The palm, "That all men are about to live."