Cursed be the verse, how well so e'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe.

Be thou the first true merit to befriend, his praise is lost who stays till all commend.

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!

No one should be ashamed to admit they are wrong, which is but saying, in other words, that they are wiser today than they were yesterday.

A little learning is a dangerous thing; Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring.

A brave man thinks no one his superior who does him an injury, for he has it then in his power to make himself superior to the other by forgiving it.

The race by vigour, not by vaunts, is won.