It is the sin which we have not committed which seems the most monstrous.

No one who cannot limit himself has ever been able to write.

Gold gives an appearance of beauty even to ugliness: But with poverty everything becomes frightful.

But satire, ever moral, ever new, Delights the reader and instructs him, too. She, if good sense refine her sterling page, Oft shakes some rooted folly of the age.

Now two punctilious envoys, Thine and Mine, Embroil the earth about a fancied line; And, dwelling much on right and much on wrong, Prove how the right is chiefly with the strong.

The wisest man is he who does not fancy that he is so at all.

It is in vain a daring author thinks of attaining to the heights of Parnassus if he does not feel the secret influence of heaven and if his natal star has not formed him to be a poet.