Tis immortality, 'tis that alone, Amid life's pains, abasements, emptiness, The soul can comfort, elevate, and fill. That only, and that amply this performs.

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

Polite diseases make some idiots vain, Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.

Ah, how unjust to Nature and himself Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man!

It is great and manly to disdain disguise; it shows our spirit and proves our strength.

One to destroy, is murder by the law; and gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe; to murder thousands, takes a specious name, 'War's glorious art', and gives immortal fame.

O! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, Lost to the noble sallies of the soul! Who think it solitude to be alone.