We weep and laugh, as we see others do.
You gain your point if your industrious art can make unusual words easy.
Tis I that call, remember Milo’s end, Wedged in that timber which he strove to rend.
Grief dejects and wrings the tortured soul.
The first great work (a task performed by few)Is that yourself may to yourself be true.
Immodest words admit of no defence, For want of decency is want of sense.
Beware what spirit rages in your breast; for one inspired, ten thousand are possessed.
Those things which now seem frivolous and slight,Will be of serious consequence to you,When they have made you once ridiculous.
What you keep by you, you may change and mend but words, once spoken, can never be recalled.
Sound judgment is the ground of writing well.
I will not quarrel with a slight mistake, Such as our nature’s frailty may excuse.
The multitude is always wrong.