The good he scorn'd Stalk'd off reluctant, like an ill-us'd ghost, Not to return; or if it did, its visits Like those of angels, short, and far between.

Beauty! thou pretty plaything! dear deceit, That steals so softly o'er the stripling's heart, And gives it a new pulse unknown before!

The grave, dread thing! Men shiver when thou'rt named: Nature appalled, Shakes off her wonted firmness.

When it draws near to witching time of night.

Whistling aloud to bear his courage up.

How blunt are all the arrows of thy quiver in comparison with those of guilt.

Friendship! Mysterious cement of the soul, Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society.