Our Time Is Fixed, And All Our

How Blunt Are All The Arrows Of Thy Quiver In Comparison With Those Of Guilt.

The Common Damn'd Shun Their Society.

The Good He Scorn'd Stalk'd Off Reluctant, Like An Ill-us'd Ghost, Not To Return; Or If It Did, Its Visits Like Those Of Angels, Short, And Far Between.

That Discipline Which Corrects The Eagerness Of Worldly Passions, Which Fortifies The Heart With Virtuous Principles, Which Enlightens The Mind With Useful Knowledge, And Furnishes To It Matter Of Enjoyment From Within Itself, Is Of More Consequence To Real Felicity Than All The Provisions Which We Can Make Of The Goods Of Fortune.

The Grave, Dread Thing! Men Shiver When Thou'rt Named: Nature Appalled, Shakes Off Her Wonted Firmness.