Griefs Assured Are Felt Before

The Glorious Lamp Of Heaven, The Radiant Sun, Is Nature's Eye.

Ill Writers Are Usually The Sharpest Censors.

Here Lies My Wife: Here Let Her Lie! Now She's At Rest, And So Am I.

Criticism Is Now Become Mere Hangman's Work, And Meddles Only With The Faults Of Authors ; Nay, The Critic Is Disgusted Less With Their Absurdities Than Excellence ; And You Cannot Displease Him More Than In Leaving Him Little Room For His Malice.

Fortune Confounds The Wise, And When They Least Expect It Turns The Dice.