Not always actions show the man; we find who does a kindness is not therefore kind.

A wit with dunces, and a dunce with wits.

In lazy apathy let stoics boast, their virtue fix'd: 't is fix'd as in a frost; contracted all, retiring to the breast; but strength of mind is exercise, not rest.

Is there a parson much bemused in beer, a maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, a clerk foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, who pens a stanza when he should engross?

What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines!

Men must be taught as if you taught them not, and things unknown proposed as things forgot.

No craving void left aching in the soul.