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.

Never find fault with the absent.

Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine; Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine! Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restored; Light dies before thy uncreating word: Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall; And universal darkness buries all.

Good God! how often are we to die before we go quite off this stage? In every friend we lose a part of ourselves, and the best part.

As the twig is bent, so grows the tree.

You beat your Pate, and fancy Wit will come: Knock as you please, there's no body at home.

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