All nature is but art unknown to thee.

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

To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite, who never mentions hell to ears polite.

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

True Wit is Nature to advantage dress'd What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd; Something whose truth convinced at sight we find, That gives us back the image of our mind. As shades more sweetly recommend the light, So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit.

Heaven from all creatures hides the book of Fate.

The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.