Authors are partial to their wit, ’tis true, But are not critics to their judgment, too?
May the Lord array thee in the garment of salvation and surround thee with the cloak of happiness.
To err is human.
The fool is happy that he knows no more.
The pride of aiming at more knowledge, and pretending to more perfection, is the cause of Man’s error and misery.
Better to jump in the water and learn to swim than stand on the shore wondering.
An excuse is worse and more terrible than a lie.
With too much quickness ever to be taught, with too much thinking to have common thought: You purchase pain with all t hat joy can give, and die of nothing but a rage to live.
Ye sacred nine.
What if the foot, ordained the dust to tread, Or hand, to toil, aspired to be the head? What if the head, the eye, or ear repined To serve mere engines to the ruling mind?
Be sure yourself and your own reach to know How far your genius taste and learning go.
Then say not man’s imperfect, Heav’n in fault;. Say rather, man’s as perfect as he ought.
Half-learn’d witlings.
Let such teach others who themselves excel.
Authors are partial to their wit.
By false learning is good sense defaced.
In search of wit these lose their common sense.
All fools have still an itching to deride.
Launch not beyond your depth.
For what else is old age but the expectation of death?
What, then, is man? A flower, I say, but only for a little while. He is a flower that is not apparent in his mother’s womb, which flourishes in his youth, but withers in old age and departs in death.