For Patience, Sov'reign O'er Transmuted Ill.

A Man May Be So Much Of Everything That He Is Nothing Of Anything.

Criticism Is A Study By Which Men Grow Important And Formidable At Very Small Expense. He Whom Nature Has Made Weak, And Idleness Keeps Ignorant, May Yet Support His Vanity By The Name Of A Critic.

Hunger Is Never Delicate; They Who Are Seldom Gorged To The Full With Praise May Be Safely Fed With Gross Compliments, For The Appetite Must Be Satisfied Before It Is Disgusted.

Here Lies Our Good Edmund, Whose Genius Was Such, We Scarcely Can Praise It Or Blame It Too Much; Who, Born For The Universe, Narrowed His Mind, And To Party Gave Up What Was Meant For Mankind.

The Greatest Human Virtue Bears No Proportion To Human Vanity. We Always Think Ourselves Better Than We Are, And Are Generally Desirous That Others Should Think Us Still Better Than We Think Ourselves. To Praise Us For Actions Or Dispositions Which Deserve Praise Is Not To Confer A Benefit, But To Pay A Tribute. We Have Always Pretensions To Fame Which, In Our Own Hearts, We Know To Be Disputable, And Which We Are Desirous To Strengthen By A New Suffrage; We Have Always Hopes Which We Suspect To Be Fallacious, And Of Which We Eagerly Snatch At Every Confirmation.