A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.

The dew of compassion is a tear.

A man must serve his time to every trade, Save censure-critics all are ready made. Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote With just enough learning to misquote.

There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.

He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.

There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in, Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.

I have seen a thousand graves opened, and always perceived that whatever was gone, the teeth and hair remained of those who had died with them. Is not this odd? They go the very first things in youth and yet last the longest in the dust.