Where Nature's end of language is declin'd, And men talk only to conceal the mind.

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

As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, So wit is by politeness sharpest set; Their want of edge from their offence is seen, Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.

Age should fly concourse, cover in retreat defects of judgment, and the will subdue; walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore of that vast ocean it must sail so soon.

We see time's furrows on another's brow, And death intrench'd, preparing his assault; How few themselves in that just mirror see!

Revere thyself, and yet thyself despise

Virtue alone has majesty in death.