The world is a thing we must of necessity either laugh at or be angry at; if we laugh at it, they say we are proud; if we are angry at it, they say we are ill-natured.

Some old men, continually praise the time of their youth. In fact, you would almost think that there were no fools in their days, but unluckily they themselves are left as an example.

What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines!

It is sure the hardest science to forget!

For what I have publish'd, I can only hope to be pardon'd; but for what I have burned, I deserve to be prais'd.

You beat your Pate, and fancy Wit will come: Knock as you please, there's no body at home.

Talk what you will of taste, my friend, you'll find two of a face as soon as of a mind.