Authors, Like Coins, Grow Dear

By Flatterers Besieged And So Obliging That He Ne'er Obliged.

Vice Is A Monster Of So Frightful Mien As To Be Hated Needs But To Be Seen; Yet Seen Too Oft, Familiar With Her Face, We First Endure, Then Pity, Then Embrace.

Leave Not A Foot Of Verse, A Foot Of Stone, A Page, A Grave, That They Can Call Their Own; But Spread, My Sons, Your Glory Thin Or Thick, On Passive Paper, Or On Solid Brick.

A Family Is But Too Often A Commonwealth Of Malignants.

With Too Much Quickness Ever To Be Taught; With Too Much Thinking To Have Common Thought.