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.

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

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.

Our Time Is Fixed, And All Our Days Are Number'd; How Long, How Short, We Know Not:—this We Know, Duty Requires We Calmly Wait The Summons, Nor Dare To Stir Till Heaven Shall Give Permission.

Industry Is Not Only The Instrument Of Improvement, But The Foundation Of Pleasure. He Who Is A Stranger To It May Possess, But Cannot Enjoy, For It Is Labor Only Which Gives Relish To Pleasure. It Is The Indispensable Condition Of Possessing A Sound Mind In A Sound Body, And It Is The Appointed Vehicle Of Every Good To Man.