'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.
The spirit walks of every day deceased.
Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew, She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven.
A dedication is a wooden leg.
'T is impious in a good man to be sad.
Where Nature's end of language is declin'd, And men talk only to conceal the mind.