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.

Not to go back is somewhat to advance, and men must walk, at least, before they dance.

What bosom beast not in his country's cause?

He best can paint them who shall feel them most.

Let such teach others who themselves excel, And censure freely who have written well.

Sickness is a sort of early old age; it teaches us a diffidence in our earthly state.

With too much quickness ever to be taught; With too much thinking to have common thought.