Lord, it is my chief complaint, That my love is weak and faint; Yet I love thee and adore, Oh for grace to love thee more!

The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear; And something, every day they live, To pity, and perhaps forgive.

Not to understand a treasure's worth till time has stole away the slighted good, is cause of half the poverty we feel, and makes the world the wilderness it is.

No wild enthusiast could rest, till half the world like him was possessed.

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

Absence from whom we love is worse than death, and frustrates hope severer than despair.

The parable of the prodigal son, the most beautiful fiction that ever was invented; our Saviour's speech to His disciples, with which He closed His earthly ministrations, full of the sublimest dignity and tenderest affection, surpass everything that I ever read; and like the spirit by which they were dictated, fly directly to the heart.