Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old.

All nature is but art unknown to thee.

The bookful blockhead ignorantly read, With loads of learned lumber in his head, With his own tongue still edifies his ears, And always list'ning to himself appears. All books he reads, and all he reads assails.

Condition, circumstance, is not the thing; Bliss is the same in subject or in king.

Oh, blindness to the future! kindly giv'n, That each may fill the circle mark'd by heaven.

The scripture in times of disputes is like an open town in times of war, which serves in differently the occasions of both parties.

Many men have been capable of doing a wise thing, more a cunning thing, but very few a generous thing.