Men are but men; we did not make ourselves.

Body and soul, like peevish man and wife, United jar, and yet are loth to part.

Where Nature's end of language is declin'd, And men talk only to conceal the mind.

Man wants little, nor that little long.

A man I knew who lived upon a smile, And well it fed him; he look'd plump and fair, While rankest venom foam'd through every vein.

'T is impious in a good man to be sad.

Affliction is the good man's shining scene; prosperity conceals his brightest ray; as night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.

Let no man trust the first false step of guilt; it hangs upon a precipice, whose steep descent in last perdition ends.

Man makes a death which Nature never made. And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.