Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes; They love a train, they tread each other's heel.

When men once reach their autumn, sickly joys fall off apace, as yellow leaves from trees

To know the world, not love her, is thy point; She gives but little, nor that little, long.

Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? What tho' we wade in Wealth, or soar in Fame? Earth's highest station ends in 'Here he lies;' and 'Dust to dust' concludes the noblest songs.

A man of pleasure is a man of pains.

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

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