What is station high? 'Tis a proud mendicant; it boasts, and begs; it begs an alms of homage from the throng, and oft the throng denies its charity.
When tir'd with vain rotations of the day, sleep winds us up for the succeeding dawn.
Why all this toil for the triumphs of an hour?
Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes; they love a train, they tread each other's heel.
The stars have fought their battles leagued with man.
They build too low who build beneath the skies.
Thy pleasure points the shaft, and bends the bow; the cluster lasts, or bids it brightly glow.
To patchwork learn'd quotations are allied, both strive to make our poverty our pride.
Virtue, our present peace, our future prize, man's unprecarious, natural estate, improvable at will, in virtue lies; its tenure sure; its income is divine.
What is this world? thy school, O Misery!
When women sue, they sue to be denied.
Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? What tho' we wade in Wealth, or soar in Fame? Earth's highest station ends in 'Here he lies;' and 'Dust to dust' concludes the noblest songs.
Women were made to give our eyes delight; A female sloven is an odious sight.
The storehouse of the world.
They only babble who practice not reflection.
Thy purpose firm is equal to the deed. - Who does the best his circumstance allows, does well, acts nobly; angels could no more.
To Virtue's humblest son let none prefer Vice, though descended from the conqueror.
Voracious learning, often over-fed, digests not into sense her motley meal. This bookcase, with dark booty almost burst, this forager on others' wisdom, leaves her native farm, her reason, quite untill'd.
What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.
Where heart meets heart, reciprocally soft, Each other's pillow to repose divine.
Why wish for more? Wishing of all employments is the worst.
Wonder is involuntary praise.
The tree that bears no fruit deserves no name; the man of wisdom is the man of years.
They talk of morals, O, thou bleeding lamb! the grand morality is love to thee!