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

The innocent seldom find an uncomfortable pillow.

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

O solitude, where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place.

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

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

A noisy man is always in the right.