…So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky

But love's a malady without a cure.

The sooner you treat your son as a man, the sooner he will be one.

A happy genius is the gift of nature.

Repartee is the soul of conversation.

The people's prayer, the glad diviner's theme, The young men's vision, and the old men's dream!

If thou dost still retain the same ill habits, the same follies, too, still thou art bound to vice, and still a slave.