Ah! happy is the man whose early lot Hath made him master of a furnish'd cot; Who trains the vine that round his window grows, And after setting sun his garden hoes; Whose wattled pails his own enclosure shield, Who toils not daily in another's field.

Still on it creeps, Each little moment at another's heels, Till hours, days, years, and ages are made up Of such small parts as these, and men look back Worn and bewilder'd, wondering how it is.

I believe this earth on which we stand is but the vestibule to glorious mansions through which a moving crowd forever press.

This will be triumph! This will be happiness! Yea, that very thing, happiness, which I have been pursuing all my life, and have never yet overtaken.

It is so seldom that a young fellow has any inclination for the company of an old man. . .

I have seen the day, when, if a man made himself ridiculous, the world would laugh at him. But now, everything that is mean, disgusting, and absurd, pleases them but so much the better!

A woman is seldom roused to great and courageous exertion but when something most dear to her is in immediate danger.