In search of Wit these lose their common Sense,
And then turn Criticks in their own Defence.
In search of Wit these lose their common Sense,
And then turn Criticks in their own Defence.
Of Manners gentle, of Affections mild; In Wit a man; Simplicity, a child.
So vast is art, so narrow human wit.
Unhappy Wit, like most mistaken Things,
Attones not for that Envy which it brings.
Authors are partial to their Wit, 'tis true,
But are not Criticks to their Judgment too?
True Wit is nature to advantage dressed, What oft was thought, bet ne'er so well expressed.
Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.
But honest instinct comes a volunteer Sure never to o'er-shoot, but just to hit, While still too wide or short in human wit.
But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens how the style refines.
Woman and Fool are two hard things to hit;
For true No-meaning puzzles more than Wit.
His moral pleases, not his pointed wit;
Forgot his epic, nay Pindaric art,
But still I love the language of his heart.
Wit is the lowest form of humor.
One science only will one genius fit; so vast is art, so narrow human wit.
Let Blood and Body bear the fault,
Her Head's untouch'd, that noble Seat of Thought:
Such this day's doctrine--in another fit
She sins with Poets thro' pure Love of Wit.
There is a certain majesty in simplicity which is far above all the quaintness of wit.
Parties in Wit attend on those of State,
And publick Faction doubles private Hate.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories