Scottish - Poet | April 17, 1699 - February 4, 1746
Of joys departed, not to return, how painful the remembrance.
Robert Blair
PainfulReturnRemembranceHowJoys
How blunt are all the arrows of thy quiver in comparison with those of guilt.
GuiltComparisonBluntArrowsHow
Its visits, like those of angels, short, and far between.
ShortAngelsFarLikeBetweenThose
Action, so to speak, is the genius of nature.
NatureActionSpeakGenius
Affectation is certain deformity; by forming themselves on fantastic models, the young begin with being ridiculous, and often end in being vicious.
EndYoungRidiculousBeginBeing
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.
ProgressMaturityWorldWhatever
Friendship! Mysterious cement of the soul, Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society.
LifeFriendshipSoulSocietyCement
The grave, dread thing! Men shiver when thou'rt named: Nature appalled, Shakes off her wonted firmness.
NatureMenHerOffGraveShakes
When it draws near to witching time of night.
TimeNightNearDraws
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