The Sooner You Treat Your Son As

So Poetry, Which Is In Oxford Made An Art, In London Only Is A Trade.

Fortune, That With Malicious Joydoes Man Her Slave Oppress,proud Of Her Office To Destroy,is Seldom Pleasd To Bless.

Criticism Is Now Become Mere Hangman's Work, And Meddles Only With The Faults Of Authors ; Nay, The Critic Is Disgusted Less With Their Absurdities Than Excellence ; And You Cannot Displease Him More Than In Leaving Him Little Room For His Malice.

For Danger Levels Man And Brute And All Are Fellows In Their Need.

Raw In The Fields The Rude Militia Swarms, Mouth Without Hands; Maintained At Vast Expense, In Peace A Charge, In War A Weak Defence.