'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.

The blood will follow where the knife is driven, The flesh will quiver where the pincers tear.

The purpose firm is equal to the deed

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.

A land of levity is a land of guilt.

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

When men of infamy to grandeur soar, They light a torch to show their shame the more.