Wit And Judgment Often Are At Strife.

Our Passions Are Like Convulsion Fits, Which, Though They Make Us Stronger For A Time, Leave Us The Weaker Ever After.

Of Manners Gentle, Of Affections Mild; In Wit A Man; Simplicity, A Child.

Cursed Be The Verse, How Well So E'er It Flow, That Tends To Make One Worthy Man My Foe.

Man Never Thinks Himself Happy, But When He Enjoys Those Things Which Others Want Or Desire.

Chiefs Who No More In Bloody Fights Engage, But Wise Through Time, And Narrative With Age, In Summer-days Like Grasshoppers Rejoice - A Bloodless Race, That Send A Feeble Voice.