The Worst Of Madmen Is A Saint

Praise Is Like Ambergrease: A Little Whiff Of It, And By Snatches, Is Very Agreeable; But When A Man Holds A Whole Lump Of It To Your Nose, It Is A Stink, And Strikes You Down.

Destroy All Creatures For Thy Sport Or Gust, Yet Cry, If Man's Unhappy, God's Unjust.

Envy Will Merit As Its Shade Pursue, But Like A Shadow, Proves The Substance True.

Virtue Alone Is Happiness Below.

Authors, Like Coins, Grow Dear As They Grow Old.