The art of poetry is to touch the passions, and its duty to lead them on the side of virtue.

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.

The Spirit breathes upon the Word and brings the truth to sight.

How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude! But grant me still a friend in my retreat, whom I may whisper, solitude is sweet.

Far happier are the dead methinks than they who look for death and fear it every day.

Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, the mere materials with which wisdom builds, till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place, does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much; wisdom is humble that he knows no more.

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