Heaven gives its favourites-early death.
Letter writing is the only device combining solitude with good company.
The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.
I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
Good but rarely came from good advice.
Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.