Ignorance, When It Is Voluntary, Is Criminal.

Wheresoe'er I Turn My View, All Is Strange, Yet Nothing New: Endless Labor All Along, Endless Labor To Be Wrong: Phrase That Time Has Flung Away; Uncouth Words In Disarray, Trick'd In Antique Ruff And Bonnet, Ode, And Elegy, And Sonnet.

Want Of Tenderness Is Want Of Parts, And Is No Less A Proof Of Stupidity Than Depravity.

Almost All The Moral Good Which Is Left Among Us Is The Apparent Effect Of Physical Evil.

Life Admits Not Of Delays; When Pleasure Can Be Had, It Is Fit To Catch It. Every Hour Takes Away Part Of The Things That Please Us, And Perhaps Part Of Our Disposition To Be Pleased.

Then With No Throbs Of Fiery Pain, No Cold Gradations Of Decay, Death Broke At Once The Vital Chain, And Freed His Soul The Nearest Way.