You eat, in dreams, the custard of the day.

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

Cursed be the verse, how well so e'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe.

As the twig is bent, so grows the tree.

"With ev'ry pleasing, ev'ry prudent part, Say, what can Chloe want?"-She wants a heart.

Act well your part, there all the honour lies.

Oh, blindness to the future! kindly giv'n, That each may fill the circle mark'd by heaven.