Heaven be thanked, we live in such an age, When no man dies for love, but on the stage.

Happy the man, and happy he alone, he who can call today his own; he who, secure within, can say, tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

He trudged along unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went, for want of thought.

But far more numerous was the herd of such, Who think too little, and who talk too much.

Repentance is but want of power to sin.

We find few historians who have been diligent enough in their search for truth; it is their common method to take on trust what they help distribute to the public; by which means a falsehood once received from a famed writer becomes traditional to posterity.

Virtue without success is a fair picture shown by an ill light; but lucky men are favorites of heaven; all own the chief, when fortune owns the cause.