Who builds a church to God and not to fame, Will never mark the marble with his name.

The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.

A perfect judge will read each word of wit with the same spirit that its author writ.

Dear, damned, distracting town, farewell! Thy fools no more I'll tease: This year in peace, ye critics, dwell, Ye harlots, sleep at ease!

Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, But are not critics to their judgment, too?

Words are like Leaves; and where they most abound, Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found.

Remembrance and reflection how allied. What thin partitions divides sense from thought.