Choose an author as you would a friend.
The first great work (a task performed by few) Is that yourself may to yourself be true.
The last loud trumpet's wondrous sound, Shall thro' the rending tombs rebound, And wake the nations under ground.
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.
Abstruse and mystic thoughts you must express With painful care, but seeming easiness; For truth shines brightest thro' the plainest dress.
Immodest words admit of no defence, For want of decency is want of sense.
What you keep by you, you may change and mend but words, once spoken, can never be recalled.
You must not think that a satiric style allows of scandalous and brutish words; the better sort abhor scurrility.
Men still had faults, and men will have them still; He that hath none, and lives as angels do, Must be an angel.
Tis I that call, remember Milo's end, Wedged in that timber which he strove to rend.
Words once spoken can never be recalled.
The press, the pulpit, and the stage, Conspire to censure and expose our age.
Truth shines brightest thro' the plainest dress.
Whatsoever contradicts my sense, I hate to see, and never can believe.
Pride (of all others the most dang'rous fault) Proceeds from want of sense, or want of thought.
Beware what spirit rages in your breast; for one inspired, ten thousand are possessed.
Invention is not so much the result of labor as of judgment.
Our heroes of the former days deserved and gained their never-fading bays.
Truth and fiction are so aptly mixed that all seems uniform and of a piece.
Often try what weight you can support, And what your shoulders are too weak to bear.
We weep and laugh, as we see others do.
The multitude is always wrong.
I will not quarrel with a slight mistake, Such as our nature's frailty may excuse.
Sound judgment is the ground of writing well.
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.
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