Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, And the puff a dunce, he mistook it for fame; Till his relish grown callous, almost to displease, Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please.

To the last moment of his breath, On hope the wretch relies; And even the pang preceding death Bids expectation rise.

There is yet a silent agony in which the mind appears to disdain all external help, and broods over its distresses with gloomy reserve. This is the most dangerous state of mind; accidents or friendships may lessen the louder kinds of grief, but all remedies for this must be had from within, and there despair too often finds the most deadly enemy.

Philosophy can add to our happiness in no other manner but by diminishing our misery; it should not pretend to increase our present stock, but make us economists of what we are possessed of. Happy were we all born philosophers; all born with a talent of thus dissipating our own cares by spreading them upon all mankind.

Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word From those who spoke her praise.

Logicians have but ill defined As rational the human mind; Reason, they say, belongs to man, But let them prove it if they can.

I have found by experience that they who have spent all their lives in cities contract not only an effeminacy of habit, but of thinking.