When it draws near to witching time of night.

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

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

Action, so to speak, is the genius of nature.

The best-concerted schemes men lay for fame, Die fast away: only themselves die faster. The far-fam'd sculptor, and the laurell'd bard, Those bold insurancers of deathless fame, Supply their little feeble aids in vain.

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

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