In indolent vacuity of thought.
My soul is sick with every day's report of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.
His wit invites you by his looks to come, But when you knock, it never is at home.
Visits are insatiable devourers of time, and fit only for those who, if they did not that, would do nothing.
An epigram is but a feeble thing - With straw in tail, stuck there by way of sting.
We are never more in danger than when we think ourselves most secure, nor in reality more secure than when we seem to be most in danger.