Worth Makes The Man, And Want Of

Whoe'er He Be That Tells My Faults, I Hate Him Mortally.

Authors Are Partial To Their Wit, 'tis True, But Are Not Critics To Their Judgment, Too?

Nothing Can Be More Shocking And Horrid Than One Of Our Kitchens Sprinkled With Blood, And Abounding With The Cries Of Expiring Victims Or With The Limbs Of Dead Animals Scattered Or Hung Up Here And There.

There Is Nothing That Is Meritorious But Virtue And Friendship.

For When Success A Lover's Toil Attends,few Ask, If Fraud Or Force Attain'd His Ends