The best things carried to excess are wrong.
It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
Great use they have, when in the hands Of one like me, who understands, Who understands the time and place, The person, manner, and the grace, Which fools neglect; so that we find, If all the requisites are join'd, From whence a perfect joke must spring, A joke's a very serious thing.
Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
Little do such men know the toil, the pains, the daily, nightly racking of the brains, to range the thoughts, the matter to digest, to cull fit phrases, and reject the rest.
Genius is nothing more than inflamed enthusiasm.
Genius is of no country; her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
To copy beauty forfeits all pretense to fame; to copy faults is want of sense
Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends; He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
Men the most infamous are fond of fame, And those who fear not guilt yet start at shame.
No tribute is laid on castles in the air.
Genius is independent of situation.
With various readings stored his empty skull, Learn'd without sense, and venerably dull.
Patience is sorrow's salve.
The danger chiefly lies in acting well; no crime's so great as daring to excel.
Truth! why shall every wretch of letters Dare to speak truth against his betters! Let ragged virtue stand aloof, Nor mutter accents of reproof; Let ragged wit a mute become, When wealth and power would have her dumb.
A servile race Who, in mere want of fault, all merit place; Who blind obedience pay to ancient schools, Bigots to Greece, and slaves to musty rules.
When satire flies abroad on falsehood's wing, Short is her life, and impotent her sting; But when to truth allied, the wound she gives Sinks deep, and to remotest ages lives.
Though folly, robed in purple, shines, Though vice exhausts Peruvian mines, Yet shall they tremble and turn pale When satire wields her mighty flail.
Who all in raptures their own works rehearse, And drawl out measur'd prose, which they call verse.
Amongst the sons of men how few are known Who dare be just to merit not their own.
The more haste, ever the worst speed.
Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
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