The multitude is always wrong.

The men, who labour and digest things most, Will be much apter to despond than boast; For if your author be profoundly good, 'Twill cost you dear before he's understood.

The last loud trumpet's wondrous sound, Shall thro' the rending tombs rebound, And wake the nations under ground.

Abstruse and mystic thoughts you must express With painful care, but seeming easiness; For truth shines brightest thro' the plainest dress.

Let us not write at a loose rambling rate, in hope the world will wink at all our faults.

What you keep by you, you may change and mend but words, once spoken, can never be recalled.

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