Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay. Princes and lords may flourish or may fade,- A breath can make them, as a breath has made; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroy'd, can never be supplied.

Absence, like death, sets a seal on the image of those we love: we cannot realize the intervening changes which time may have effected.

I love everything that's old, - old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine.

I learn several great truths; as that it is impossible to see into the ways of futurity, that punishment always attends the villain, that love is the fond soother of the human breast.

Whatever be the motives which induce men to write,--whether avarice or fame,--the country becomes more wise and happy in which they most serve for instructors.

The hours we pass with happy prospects in view are more pleasing than those crowded with fruition.

The loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind.