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

In an active life is sown the seed of wisdom... And age, if it has not esteem, has nothing.

The maid that loves goes out to sea upon a shattered plank, and puts her trust in miracles for safety.

A tardy vengeance shares the tyrant's guilt.

At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan.

What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature; around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!

This vast and solid earth, that blazing sun, Those skies, thro' which it rolls, must all have end. What then is man? The smallest part of nothing.