Procrastination is the thief of time; year after year it steals, till all are fled, and to the mercies of a moment leaves the vast concerns of an eternal state. At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; knows it at forty, and reforms his plan; at fifty chides his infamous delay, pushes his prudent purpose to resolve; in all the magnanimity of thought, resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same.

Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.

Some wits, too, like oracles, deal in ambiguities, but not with equal success; for though ambiguities are the first excellence of an imposter, they are the last of a wit.

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

He mourns the dead who lives as they desire.

Friendship's the wine of life.

Wouldst thou be famed? have those high acts in view, Brave men would act though scandal would ensue.