Wit Is The Lowest Form Of Humor.

Who Sees With Equal Eye, As God Of All, A Hero Perish Or A Sparrow Fall, Atoms Or Systems Into Ruin Hurl'd, And Now A Bubble Burst, And Now A World.

A Perfect Woman's But A Softer Man.

If, Presume Not To God To Scan; The Proper Study Of Mankind Is Man. Plac'd On This Isthmus Of A Middle State, A Being Darkly Wise, And Rudely Great.

Fondly We Think We Honor Merit Then, When We But Praise Ourselves In Other Men.

True Wit Is Nature To Advantage Dress'd What Oft Was Thought, But Ne'er So Well Express'd; Something Whose Truth Convinced At Sight We Find, That Gives Us Back The Image Of Our Mind. As Shades More Sweetly Recommend The Light, So Modest Plainness Sets Off Sprightly Wit.