Men would be angels, angels would be gods.

A perfect judge will read each word of wit with the same spirit that its author writ.

Aurora now, fair daughter of the dawn, Sprinkled with rosy light the dewy lawn.

To endeavor to work upon the vulgar with fine sense is like attempting to hew blocks with a razor.

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 dances ended, all the fairy train For pinks and daisies search'd the flow'ry plain.

That character in conversation which commonly passes for agreeable is made up of civility and falsehood.