Virtue Alone Is Happiness Below.

Good God! How Often Are We To Die Before We Go Quite Off This Stage? In Every Friend We Lose A Part Of Ourselves, And The Best Part.

Conceit Is To Nature What Paint Is To Beauty; It Is Not Only Needless, But It Impairs What It Would Improve.

Die Of A Rose In Aromatic Pain.

The Flower's Are Gone When The Fruits Appear To Ripen.

To Him No High, No Low, No Great, No Small; He Fills, He Bounds, Connects And Equals All!