Why did I write? whose sin to me unknown Dipt me in ink, my parents’, or my own? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisp’d in numbers, for the numbers came.
Who breaks a butterfly on a wheel?
In this commonplace world every one is said to be romantic who either admires a fine thing or does one.
When much dispute has past, we find our tenets just the same as last.
The Physician, by the study and inspection of urine and ordure, approves himself in the science; and in like sort should our author accustom and exercise his imagination upon the dregs of nature.
Know, Nature’s children all divide her care, The fur that warms a monarch warmed a bear.
Trace Science, then, with Modesty thy guide, First strip off all her equipage of Pride, Deduct what is but Vanity or Dress, Or Learning’s Luxury or idleness, Or tricks, to show the stretch of the human brain Mere curious pleasure or ingenious pain.
New, distant Scenes of endless Science rise: So pleas’d at first, the towring Alps we try,...
You eat, in dreams, the custard of the day.
Hope springs eternal.
Most women have no characters at all.
The soul’s calm sunshine and heartfelt joy.
Nay, fly to altars; there they’ll talk you dead; For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
Genius creates, and taste preserves.
Wine works the heart up, wakes the wit, There is no cure ’gainst age but it.
Let such teach others who themselves excel, And censure freely who have written well.
To happy convents, bosomed deep in vines, Where slumber abbots, purple as their wines.
Is it, in heav’n, a crime to love too well?
Conceit is to nature what paint is to beauty; it is not only needless, but it impairs what it would improve.
No writing is good that does not tend to better mankind in some way or other.