Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!

Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.

Where there is mystery, it is generally suspected there must also be evil.

Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires The young, makes Weariness forget his toil, And Fear her danger; opens a new world When this, the present, palls.

Let no man grumble when his friends fall off, As they will do like leaves at the first breeze; When your affairs come round, one way or t'other, Go to the coffee house, and take another.

A legal broom's a moral chimney-sweeper, And that's the reason he himself's so dirty

O Gold! I still prefer thee unto paper, which makes bank credit like a bark of vapour.