A death-bed's a detector of the heart.
The booby father craves a booby son, And by Heaven's blessing thinks himself undone.
The soft whispers of the God in man.
And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
Life's cares are comforts; such by Heav'n design'd; He that hath none must make them, or be wretched.
The man that makes a character, makes foes.