Virtue alone has majesty in death.

Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew, She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven.

Be wise with speed; a fool at forty is a fool indeed.

Ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part, is peace.

O! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, Lost to the noble sallies of the soul! Who think it solitude to be alone.

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man!... Midway from nothing to the Deity!

One to destroy, is murder by the law; and gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe; to murder thousands, takes a specious name, 'War's glorious art', and gives immortal fame.