Those flimsy webs that break as soon as wrought, attain not to the dignity of thought.

Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die

Thus happiness depends, as nature shows, less on exterior things than most suppose.

Visits are insatiable devourers of time, and fit only for those who, if they did not that, would do nothing.

Ceremony leads her bigots forth, prepared to fight for shadows of no worth. While truths, on which eternal things depend, can hardly find a single friend.

Variety's the very spice of life, That gives it all its flavor.

Then liberty, like day, Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from Heaven Fires all the faculties with glorious joy.