Day buries day; month, month; and year the year: Our life is but a chain of many deaths.

He that's ungrateful has no guilt but one; All other crimes may pass for virtues in him.

Praise, more divine than prayer; prayer points our ready path to heaven; praise is already there.

He sins against this life, who slights the next.

A land of levity is a land of guilt.

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man!... Midway from nothing to the Deity!

Man makes a death which Nature never made. And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.