Pride, Where Wit Fails, Steps In To

I Think A Good Deal May Be Said To Extenuate The Fault Of Bad Poets. What We Call A Genius, Is Hard To Be Distinguish'd By A Man Himself, From A Strong Inclination: And If His Genius Be Ever So Great, He Can Not At First Discover It Any Other Way, Than By Giving Way To That Prevalent Propensity Which Renders Him The More Liable To Be Mistaken.

Authors Are Partial To Their Wit, 'tis True, But Are Not Critics To Their Judgment, Too?

Condition, Circumstance, Is Not The Thing; Bliss Is The Same In Subject Or In King.

There Never Was Any Party, Faction, Sect, Or Cabal Whatsoever, In Which The Most Ignorant Were Not The Most Violent; For A Bee Is Not A Busier Animal Than A Blockhead.

While I Live, No Rich Or Noble Knave Shall Walk The World In Credit To His Grave.