An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.
'T is impious in a good man to be sad.
Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes; They love a train, they tread each other's heel.
A foe to God ne'er was true friend to man, Some sinister intent taints all he does.
Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile.
Wouldst thou be famed? have those high acts in view, Brave men would act though scandal would ensue.