He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack, For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them back.

It world be well had we more misers than we have among us.

Friendship is made up of esteem and pleasure; pity is composed of sorrow and contempt: the mind may for some time fluctuate between them, but it can never entertain both at once.

Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no lies.

Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And even his failings lean'd to Virtue's side.

Our pleasures are short, and can only charm at intervals; love is a method of protraction our greatest pleasure.

Why was this heart of mine formed with so much sensibility! Or why not my fortune adapted to its impulses! Tenderness without a capacity of relieving only makes the man who feels it more wretched than the object which sues for assistance.