Choose an author as you would a friend.
Tis I that call, remember Milo's end, Wedged in that timber which he strove to rend.
What you keep by you, you may change and mend but words, once spoken, can never be recalled.
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.
Sound judgment is the ground of writing well.
Those things which now seem frivolous and slight,
Will be of serious consequence to you,
When they have made you once ridiculous.
Often try what weight you can support,
And what your shoulders are too weak to bear.
Truth and fiction are so aptly mixed that all seems uniform and of a piece.
Our heroes of the former days deserved and gained their never-fading bays.
Invention is not so much the result of labor as of judgment.
Whatsoever contradicts my sense,
I hate to see, and never can believe.
Abstruse and mystic thoughts you must express With painful care, but seeming easiness; For truth shines brightest thro' the plainest dress.
The multitude is always wrong.
Words once spoken can never be recalled.
I will not quarrel with a slight mistake, Such as our nature's frailty may excuse.
... truth shines brightest thro' the plainest dress.
The press, the pulpit, and the stage, Conspire to censure and expose our age.
Men still had faults, and men will have them still; He that hath none, and lives as angels do, Must be an angel.
Praise Him, each savage furious beast
That on His stores do daily feast;
And you tame slaves, of the laborious plough,
Your weary knees to your Creator bow.
We weep and laugh, as we see others do.
You must not think that a satiric style allows of scandalous and brutish words; the better sort abhor scurrility.
Pride (of all others the most dang'rous fault) Proceeds from want of sense, or want of thought.
Immodest words admit of no defence, For want of decency is want of sense.
Grief dejects and wrings the tortured soul.
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