The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.

Creation sleeps! 'T is as the general pulse Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause,- An awful pause! prophetic of her end.

The man that blushes is not quite a brute.

Friendship's the wine of life: but friendship new... is neither strong nor pure.

Age should fly concourse, cover in retreat defects of judgment, and the will subdue; walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore of that vast ocean it must sail so soon.

As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, So wit is by politeness sharpest set; Their want of edge from their offence is seen, Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.

Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, A soldier should be modest as a maid.