There are no tricks in plain simple faith.-Shakespeare. Faith builds a bridge from this world to the next.
Thou, my all! My theme! My inspiration! My crown! My strength in age ? my rise in low estate! My soul's ambition, pleasure, wealth! ? My world! My light in darkness! And my life in death! My boast through time! Bliss through eternity! Eternity, too short to speak thy praise! Or fathom thy profound of love to man!
Titles are marks of honest men, and wise; the fool or knave that wears a title lies.
True wisdom is the price of happiness.
What ardently we wish, we soon believe.
When men of infamy to grandeur soar, they light a torch to show their shame the more, those governments which curb not evils, cause! And a rich knave's a libel on our laws.
Who never loved ne'er suffered; he feels nothing, who nothing feels but for himself alone.
With fame, in just proportion, envy grows.
The qualities all in a bee that we meet, In an epigram never should fail; The body should always be little and sweet, And a sting should be felt in its tail.
There buds the promise of celestial worth.
Though man sits still, and takes his ease, God is at work on man; no means, no moment unemploy'd, to bless him, if he can.
To climb life's worn, heavy wheel which draws up nothing new.
Truth never was indebted to a lie.
What day, what hour, but knocks at human hearts, to wake the soul to sense of future scenes? Deaths stand like Mercurys, in every way, and kindly point us to our journey's end.
When men once reach their autumn, sickly joys fall off apace, as yellow leaves from trees.
Who rounded in his palm these spacious orbs? Numerous as glittering gems of morning dew, or sparks from populous cities in a blaze, and set the bosom of old night on fire.
With skill she vibrates her eternal tongue, forever most divinely in the wrong.
The selfish heart deserves the pain it feels; more gen'rous sorrow, while it sinks, exalts, and conscious virtue mitigates the pang.
There is ever a certain languor attending the fullness of prosperity. When the heart has no more to wish, it yawns over its possessions, and the energy of the soul goes out, like a flame that has no more to devour.
Though wrong the mode, comply; more sense is shown in wearing others' follies than our own.
To frown at pleasure, and to smile in pain.
Unlearned men of books assume the care, as eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.
What folly can be ranker. Like our shadows, Our wishes lengthen as our sun declines.
When pain can't bless, heaven quits us in despair.