And oft, though wisdom wake, suspicion sleeps At wisdom's gate, and to simplicity Resigns her charge, while goodness thinks no ill Where no ill seems.

Let us go forth and resolutely dare with sweat of brow to toil our little day.

Th' ethereal mould Incapable of stain would soon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope Is flat despair.

A short retirement urges a sweet return.

Anarchy is the sure consequence of tyranny; for no power that is not limited by laws can ever be protected by them.

Part of my soul I seek thee, and claim thee my other half

Seas wept from our deep sorrows.