Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow oldIt is the rust we value, not the gold.
Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old It is the rust we value, not the gold.
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned By strangers honored, and by strangers mourned.
There goes a saying, and 'twas shrewdly said, ''Old fish at table, but young flesh in bed.''
All looks yellow to a jaundiced eye.
A little bit of knowledge
Why has not man a microscopic eye For the plain reason man is not a fly.
Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.
The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read With loads of learned lumber in his head.
How happy is the blameless vestal's lot The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Gentle dullness ever loves a joke.
Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around
Man never thinks himself happy, but when he enjoys those things which others want or desire.
Honor and shame from no condition rise. Act well your part there all the honor lies.
And all who told it added something new, and all who heard it, made enlargements too.
To be angry is to revenge the faults of others upon ourselves.
For Forms of Government let fools contest whatever is best administered is best.
Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw.
Act well your part, there all the honour lies.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast Man never is, but always To be Blest.
I am his Highness dog at Kew pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you
Be not the first by which a new thing is tried, or the last to lay the old aside.
And, after all, what is a lie 'Tis but the truth in a masquerade.
Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
The difference is too nice - Where ends the virtue or begins the vice.