Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.

The qualities all in a bee that we meet, In an epigram never should fail; The body should always be little and sweet, And a sting should be felt in its tail.

Some for renown, on scraps of learning dote, And think they grow immortal as they quote.

Let no man trust the first false step of guilt; it hangs upon a precipice, whose steep descent in last perdition ends.

Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow.

Wishing of all employments is the worst

The man that makes a character, makes foes.