Genius creates, and taste preserves.
Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead; For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
Did some more sober critics come abroad? If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod.
Love the offender, yet detest the offense.
Wit and judgment often are at strife.
Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, content to dwell in decencies for ever.