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

My day is closed! the gloom of night is come! a hopeless darkness settles over my fate.

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.

O mysterious Night! thou art not silent; many tongues halt thou.

It ever is the marked propensity of restless and aspiring minds to look into the stretch of dark futurity.

The plainest case in many words entangling.

Pampered vanity is a better thing perhaps than starved pride.