Waning moons their settled periods keep, to swell the billows and ferment the deep.

Look what a little vain dust we are!

In the loss of an object we do not proportion our grief to the real value it bears, but to the value our fancies set upon it.

The religious man fears, the man of honor scorns, to do an ill action.

The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years, But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amidst the wars of elements, The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlds.

It is pleasant to see a notorious profligate seized with a concern for religion, and converting his spleen into zeal.

Encourage innocent amusement.