Poetry is a kind of ingenious nonsense (Spence, Anecdotes).

He that loveth a book will never want a faithful friend, a wholesome counsellor, a cheerful companion, an effectual comforter.

It is safe to make a choice of your thoughts, scarcely ever safe to express them all.

Because men believe not in Providence, therefore they do so greedily scrape and hoard. They do not believe in any reward for charity, therefore they will part with nothing.

Smiling always with a never fading serenity of countenance, and flourishing in an immortal youth.