Good sense, good health, good conscience, and good fame,--all these belong to virtue, and all prove that virtue has a title to your love.

Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.

'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume; And we are weeds without it.

God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform; He plants his footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm. Deep in unfathomable mines Of never failing skill He treasures up his bright designs, And works his sovereign will. Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head. Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust him for his grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.

Strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest mood.

They whom truth and wisdom lead, can gather honey from a weed.

The cares of today are seldom those of tomorrow, and when we lie down at night we may safely say to most of our troubles, "Ye have done your worst, and we shall see you no more."