Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be, In every work regard the writer's end, Since none can compass more than they intend; And if the means be just, the conduct true, Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due.

Like Cato, give his little senate laws, and sit attentive to his own applause.

'Tis not enough your counsel still be true; Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do.

A work of art that contains theories is like an object on which the price tag has been left.

Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.

Hope springs eternal.

The nicest constitutions of government are often like the finest pieces of clock-work, which, depending on so many motions, are therefore more subject to be out of order.