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.

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

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

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.

I wish I were with some of the wild people that run in the woods, and know nothing about accomplishments!

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.

He that will not give some portion of his ease, his blood, his wealth, for other's good, is a poor, frozen churl.