Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded. That all the Apostles would have done as they did.
'Tis very certain the desire of life prolongs it.
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.
Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.
Life is too short for chess.
Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.