For wit and judgment often are at strife, Though meant each other’s aid, like man and wife.
Every professional was once an amateur.
I have more zeal than wit.
Nor in the critic let the man be lost.
The zeal of fools offends at any time.
Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows.
Soft o’er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe, That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath.
Still follow sense, of ev’ry art the soul, Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole.
No creature smarts so little as a fool.
Love, Hope, and Joy, fair pleasure’s smiling train, Hate, Fear, and Grief, the family of pain, These mix’d with art, and to due bounds confin’d Make and maintain the balance of the mind.
Unthought-of Frailties cheat us in the Wise.
Unblemish’d let me live or die unknown; Oh, grant an honest fame, or grant me none!
The Right Divine of Kings to govern wrong.
Is there no bright reversion in the sky, For those who greatly think or bravely die?
Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow; The rest is all but leather and prunello.
The mouse that always trusts to one poor hole Can never be a mouse of any soul.
If faith itself has different dresses worn, What wonder modes in wit should take their turn?
Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust, Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.
What Conscience dictates to be done, Or warns me not to do; This teach me more than Hell to shun, That more than Heav’n pursue.
In every work regard the writer’s end, Since none can compass more than they intend.