Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, And though no science, fairly worth the seven.
Great oaks grow from little acorns. He has a green thumb. He has green fingers. He's sowing his wild oats. Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand, And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand.
Know then thyself, presume not God to scan; The proper study of mankind is man.
All looks yellow to a jaundiced eye.
I am his Highness' dog at Kew; Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
All nature's diff'rence keeps all nature's peace.