An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.

Revere thyself, and yet thyself despise.

Tomorrow is a satire on today, And shows its weakness.

The clouds may drop down titles and estates, and wealth may seek us, but wisdom must be sought.

The maid that loves goes out to sea upon a shattered plank, and puts her trust in miracles for safety.

Those who build beneath the stars build too low.

By all means use some time to be alone.

Friendship's the wine of life: but friendship new... is neither strong nor pure.

An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.

Some for renown, on scraps of learning dote, And think they grow immortal as they quote.

Virtue alone has majesty in death.

Life is the desert, life the solitude, death joins us to the great majority.

A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.

Too low they build who build below the skies.

Wise it is to comprehend the whole.

By night an atheist half believes in a God.

A friend is worth all hazards we can run.

The purpose firm is equal to the deed.

Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform.

A man of pleasure is a man of pains.

Much learning shows how little mortals know; much wealth, how little wordings enjoy.

The house of laughter makes a house of woe.

Wishing of all employments is the worst.

The man that makes a character, makes foes.

How blessings brighten as they take their flight.

Wonder is involuntary praise.

A Christian is the highest style of man.

All men think all men mortal, but themselves.

Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die.

None think the great unhappy, but the great.

All men think that all men are mortal but themselves.

Read nature; nature is a friend to truth.

The weak have remedies, the wise have joys; superior wisdom is superior bliss.

There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.

The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done.

Truth never was indebted to a lie.

Still seems it strange, that thou shouldst live forever? Is it less strange, that thou shouldst live at all? This is a miracle; and that no more.

They only babble who practise not reflection.

Our birth is nothing but our death begun, As tapers waste the moment they take fire.

The man that blushes is not quite a brute.

Less base the fear of death than fear of life.

Procrastination is the thief of time.

The course of Nature is the art of God.

A God all mercy is a God unjust.

Be wise with speed; a fool at forty is a fool indeed.

One to destroy, is murder by the law; and gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe; to murder thousands, takes a specious name, 'War's glorious art', and gives immortal fame.

Too low they build, who build beneath the stars.

We are all born originals.

The future seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie long in the baking never quite done.