Who often, but without success, have prayed For apt Alliteration's artful aid.
Who often, but without success, have prayed For apt Alliteration's artful aid.
Wise fear, you know, Forbids the robbing of a foe But what, to serve our private ends, forbids the cheating of our friends.
Who to patch up his fame, or fill his purse, Still pilfers wretched plans, and makes them worse Like gypsies, lest the stolen brat be known, Defacing first, then claiming for his own.
Genius is of no country.
Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
Genius is independent of situation.
There webs were spread of more than common size, And half-starved spiders prey'd on half-starved flies.
Those who would make us feel, must feel themselves.
To copy beauty forfeits all pretense to fame; to copy faults is want of sense.
The best things carried to excess are wrong.
Where he falls short, 'tis Nature's fault alone Where he succeeds, the merit's all his own.
Men the most infamous are fond of fame, And those who fear not guilt yet start at shame.
Old-age, a second child, by Nature curs'd With more and greater evils than the first, Weak, sickly, full of pains in ev'ry breath Railing at life, and yet afraid of death.
Adepts in the speaking trade; Keep a cough by them ready made.
Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
Apt alliteration's artful aid.
Keep up appearances; there lies the test. The world will give thee credit for the rest.
Even in a hero's heart, Discretion is the better part
Wherever waves can roll, and winds can blow.
The danger chiefly lies in acting well; no crime's so great as daring to excel.
Prudent dullness marked him for a mayor.
Genius is of no country her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
No statesman e'er will find it worth his pains To tax our labours and excise our brains.
Little do such men know the toil, the pains, the daily, nightly racking of the brains, to range the thoughts, the matter to digest, to cull fit phrases, and reject the rest.
So loud each tongue, so empty was each head, So much they talked, so very little said.
Just to the windward of the law.
He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
With various readings stored his empty skull, Learn'd without sense, and venerably dull.
Patience is sorrow's salve.
Be England what she will, with all her faults she is my country still.
Statesman all over, in plots famous grown, He mouths a sentence, as curs mouth a bone.
It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories