We are never more in danger than when we think ourselves most secure, nor in reality more secure than when we seem to be most in danger.

Fanaticism, the false fire of an overheated mind.

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

O Winter, ruler of the inverted year!

A man renowned for repartee will seldom scruple to make free with friendship's finest feeling, will thrust a dagger at your breast, and say he wounded you in jest, by way of balm for healing.

God moves in mysterious ways His wonders to performs

Pernicious weed! whose scent the fair annoys, Unfriendly to society's chief joys: Thy worst effect is banishing for hours The sex whose presence civilizes ours.