Immodest words admit of no defence, For want of decency is want of sense.

Choose an author as you would a friend.

Truth and fiction are so aptly mixed that all seems uniform and of a piece.

I will not quarrel with a slight mistake, Such as our nature's frailty may excuse.

Beware what spirit rages in your breast; for one inspired, ten thousand are possessed.

Words are like leaves; some wither every year, and every year a younger race succeed.

The multitude is always wrong.