But of all plagues, good Heaven, thy wrath can send, Save me, oh, save me, from the candid friend!

Man, only - rash, refined, presumptuous man, Starts from his rank, and mars creation's plan.

But of all plagues, good Heaven, thy wrath can send, Save me, oh, save me, from the candid friend!

When our perils are past, shall our gratitude sleep?

Needy knife-grinder! whither are ye going? Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order; Bleak blows the blast-your hat has got a hole in it. So have your breeches.

I called the New World into existence, to redress the balance of the Old.

Away with the cant of 'Measures not men!'-the idle supposition that it is the harness and not the horses that draw the chariot along.