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.

The hungry judges soon the sentence sign, and wretches hang that jurymen may dine.

Wit in conversation is only a readiness of thought and a facility of expression, or a quick conception and an easy delivery.

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

Words are like Leaves; and where they most abound, Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found.

A generous friendship no cold medium knows, Burns with one love, with one resentment glows.

If I am right, Thy grace impart Still in the right to stay; If I am wrong, O, teach my heart To find that better way!