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

Homer excels all the inventors of other arts in this: that he has swallowed up the honor of those who succeeded him.

Is there a parson much bemused in beer, a maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, a clerk foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, who pens a stanza when he should engross?

He best can paint them who shall feel them most.

Sometimes virtue starves while vice is fed.

Chaos of thought and passion, all confused; Still by himself abused or disabused; Created half to rise, and half to fall; Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all; Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled,- The glory, jest, and riddle of the world.

In lazy apathy let stoics boast, their virtue fixed, 'tis fixed as in a frost.