Of joys departed, not to return, how painful the remembrance.
Friendship! Mysterious cement of the soul, Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society.
How blunt are all the arrows of thy quiver in comparison with those of guilt.
Throughout the whole vegetable, sensible, and rational world, whatever makes progress towards maturity, as soon as it has passed that point, begins to verge towards decay.
Its visits, like those of angels, short, and far between.
