Such Labour'd Nothings, In So

Ambition First Sprung From Your Blest Abodes: The Glorious Fault Of Angels And Of Gods.

The Only Time You Run Out Of Chances Is When You Stop Taking Them

Praise Undeserved, Is Satire In Disguise.

All Nature Is But Art, Unknown To Thee All Chance, Direction, Which Thou Canst Not See; All Discord, Harmony Not Understood; All Partial Evil, Universal Good.

Praise Is Like Ambergrease: A Little Whiff Of It, And By Snatches, Is Very Agreeable; But When A Man Holds A Whole Lump Of It To Your Nose, It Is A Stink, And Strikes You Down.