Let such teach others who themselves excel, And censure freely who have written well.

Great oaks grow from little acorns. He has a green thumb. He has green fingers. He's sowing his wild oats. Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand, And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand.

The grave unites; where e'en the great find rest, And blended lie th' oppressor and th' oppressed!

No louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast, When husbands or lap-dogs breathe their last.

One science only will one genius fit; so vast is art, so narrow human wit.

No writing is good that does not tend to better mankind in some way or other.

I am his Highness' dog at Kew; Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?