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.

Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.

Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.

Be wise to-day; 't is madness to defer.

The maid that loves goes out to sea upon a shattered plank, and puts her trust in miracles for safety.

What is a miracle?--'Tis a reproach, 'Tis an implicit satire on mankind; And while it satisfies, it censures too.

Truth never was indebted to a lie