Ocean into tempest wrought, To waft a feather, or to drown a fly.

Poor in abundance, famish'd at a feast.

The man that blushes is not quite a brute.

Affliction is the good man's shining scene; prosperity conceals his brightest ray; as night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.

A foe to God ne'er was true friend to man, Some sinister intent taints all he does.

Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.

'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.