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.

Words once spoken can never be recalled.

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

Our heroes of the former days deserved and gained their never-fading bays.

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

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