It matters not how a man dies, but how he lives. The act of dying is not of importance, it lasts so short a time.

Poetry is the art of uniting pleasure with truth.

Almost all the moral good which is left among us is the apparent effect of physical evil.

Everybody loves to have things which please the palate put in their way, without trouble or preparation.

Labor's face is wrinkled with the wind, and swarthy with the sun.

A man who is good enough to go to heaven is good enough to be a clergyman.

Oats. A grain, which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people.