Give me, indulgent gods with mind serene, And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene, No splendid poverty, no smiling care, No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there.

Mine is the night, with all her stars.

Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die.

The man that blushes is not quite a brute.

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

What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.

A death-bed's a detector of the heart.