Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.
Pity swells the tide of love.
Poor in abundance, famish'd at a feast.
The man who consecrates his hours by vigorous effort, and an honest aim, at once he draws the sting of life and Death; he walks with nature; and her paths are peace.
When pain can't bless, heaven quits us in despair.
Ocean into tempest wrought, To waft a feather, or to drown a fly.