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.

A good man's prayers will from the deepest dungeon climb heaven's height, and bring a blessing down.

The plainest case in many words entangling.

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

Heaven often smites in mercy, even when the blow is severest.

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.

Time never bears such moments on his wing as when he flies too swiftly to be marked.