Get your enemy to read your works in order to mend them, for your friend is so much your second self that he will judge too like you.

Our rural ancestors, with little blest, Patient of labor when the end was rest, Indulged the day that housed their annual grain, With feasts, and off'rings, and a thankful strain.

Hope springs eternal.

Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes: the glorious fault of angels and of gods.

One science only will one genius fit; so vast is art, so narrow human wit.

The search of our future being is but a needless, anxious, and haste to be knowing, sooner than we can, what, without all this solicitude, we shall know a little later.

The only time you run out of chances is when you stop taking them