A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn.

For forms of faith let graceless zealots fight; his can't be wrong whose life is in the right.

Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend.

The bookful blockhead ignorantly read, With loads of learned lumber in his head, With his own tongue still edifies his ears, And always list'ning to himself appears. All books he reads, and all he reads assails.

Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath, The clamtrous lapwings feel the leaden death; Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare They fall, and leave their little lives in air.

I believe no one qualification is so likely to make a good writer, as the power of rejecting his own thoughts.

Light quirks of music, broken and uneven,Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heav'n.