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.

The few that pray at all pray oft amiss.

I pity them greatly, but I must be mum, for how could we do without sugar and rum?

Folly ends where genuine hope begins.

The earth was made so various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change, And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.

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.

Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, The clouds you so much dread Are big with mercy and shall break, With blessings on your head