Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart. One self-approving hour whole years outweighs Of stupid starers and of loud huzzas; And more true joy Marcellus exil'd feels Than Cæsar with a senate at his heels. In parts superior what advantage lies? Tell (for you can) what is it to be wise? 'T is but to know how little can be known; To see all others' faults, and feel our own.

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

There is a certain majesty in simplicity which is far above all the quaintness of wit.

Some are bewildered in the maze of schools, And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools.

No one should be ashamed to admit they are wrong, which is but saying, in other words, that they are wiser today than they were yesterday.

Health consists with temperance alone.

Talk what you will of taste, my friend, you'll find two of a face as soon as of a mind.