Where's the man who counsel can bestow, still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know.
The hungry judges soon the sentence sign, and wretches hang that jurymen may dine.
A wit with dunces, and a dunce with wits.
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!
The only time you run out of chances is when you stop taking them
The villain's censure is extorted praise.