What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines!

Vice is a monster of so frightful mien As to be hated needs but to be seen; Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace.

The lot of man - to suffer and to die.

Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart

Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear.

Wit is the lowest form of humor.