Wealth accumulates, and men decay.

O friendship! thou fond soother of the human breast, to thee we fly in every calamity; to thee the wretched seek for succor; on thee the care-tired son of misery fondly relies; from thy kind assistance the unfortunate always hopes relief, and may be sure of--disappointment.

A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year.

If we do not find happiness in the present moment, in what shall we find it?

The mind is ever ingenious in making its own distress.

Both wit and understanding are trifles without integrity; it is that which gives value to every character. The ignorant peasant, without fault, is greater than the philosopher with many; for what is genius or courage without a heart?

The fortunate circumstances of our lives are generally found, at last, to be of our own producing.