To Shoot At Crows Is Powder Flung

Shall Ignorance Of Good And Ill Dare To Direct The Eternal Will? Seek Virtue, And Of That Possest, To Providence Resign The Rest.

The Fly That Sips Treacle Is Lost In The Sweets.

I Never, With Important Air, In Conversation Overbear. . . . . My Tongue Within My Lips I Rein; For Who Talks Much Must Talk In Vain.

When We Risk No Contradiction, It Prompts The Tongue To Deal In Fiction.

Envy's A Sharper Spur Than Pay: No Author Ever Spar'd A Brother; Wits Are Gamecocks To One Another.