Poetry is the honey of all flowers, the quintessence of all sciences, the marrow of wit, and the very phrase of angels.

New herrings, new!' we must cry, every time we make ourselves public, or else we shall be christened with a hundred new titles of idiotism.

From winter, plague and pestilence, good lord, deliver us!

Shape your coat according to your cloth.

The Sun shineth as well on the good as the bad: God from on high beholdeth all the workers of iniquity, as well as the upright of heart.

Immortal Spenser, no frailty hath thy fame but the imputation of this idiot's friendship!

Blest is that government where no art thrives.