Much learning shows how little mortals know; much wealth, how little wordings enjoy.
There is nothing of which men are more liberal than their good advice, be their stock of it ever so small because it seems to carry in it an intimation of their own influence, importance or worth.
Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile.
Sorrow's best antidote is employment.
Prayer ardent opens heaven.
By night an atheist half believes in a God.
On the soft bed of luxury most kingdoms have expired.
Man wants but little nor that little, long.
Procrastination is the thief of time Year after year it steals, till all are fled, And to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
Final Ruin fiercely drives Her plowshare oer creation.
Horace appears in good humor while he censures, and therefore his censure has the more weight, as supposed to proceed from judgment and not from passion.
Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour What tho' we wade in Wealth, or soar in Fame Earth's highest station ends in Here he lies and Dust to dust concludes the noblest songs
Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse Of life stood still, and nature made a pause.
Age should fly concourse, cover in retreat defects of judgment, and the will subdue walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore of that vast ocean it must sail so soon.
The man of wisdom is the man of years.
The soft whispers of the God in man.
Of mans miraculous mistakes, this bears The palm, 'That all men are about to live.'
Poor is the friendless master of a world A world in purchase of a friend is gain.
A friend is worth all hazards we can run.
Great let me call him, for he conquered me.
A Christian is the highest style of man.
Hell is the full knowledge of the truth when truth, resisted long, is sworn our foe, and calls eternity to do her right.
Ambition powerful source of good and ill.
Affliction is the good man's shining scene prosperity conceals his brightest ray as night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
Amid my list of blessings infinite, stands this the foremost, 'that my heart has bled.'
The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, Reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart.
Life is the desert, life the solitude, death joins us to the great majority.
Think naught a trifle, though it small appear Small sands the mountain, moments make the year, And trifles life.
Ah, how unjust to Nature and himself Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man.
But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.
Walt Whitman - Virgil - T. S. Eliot - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe - Horace - Dante Alighieri - William Congreve - Sylvia Plath - John Betjeman - Edgar Guest