I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.

Some praise at morning what they blame at night, but always think the last opinion right.

Dogs, ye have had your day!

Heaven from all creatures hides the book of Fate.

On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, Which Jews might kiss and infidels adore.

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

I believe no one qualification is so likely to make a good writer, as the power of rejecting his own thoughts.