Wit is the lowest form of humor.

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.

Nothing is more certain than much of the force; as well as grace, of arguments or instructions depends their conciseness.

A gen'rous heart repairs a sland'rous tongue.

Fine sense and exalted sense are not half so useful as common sense.

Some are bewildered in the maze of schools, And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools.

Our rural ancestors, with little blest, Patient of labor when the end was rest, Indulged the day that housed their annual grain, With feasts, and off'rings, and a thankful strain.