There is in souls a sympathy with sounds.

Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, The clouds you so much dread Are big with mercy and shall break, With blessings on your head

Reasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way, Whilst meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray.

Happy the man who sees a God employed in all the good and ills that checker life.

Oh to have a lodge in some vast wilderness. Where rumors of oppression and deceit, of unsuccessful and successful wars may never reach me anymore.

The proud are ever most provoked by pride.

War's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.