61 quotes
Like the dreams,
Children of night, of indigestion bred.
Grave without thought, and without feeling, gay.
The Prophecy of Famine: A Scots Pastoral (1763)
Within the brain's most secret cells
A certain Lord Chief Justice dwells,
Of sovereign power, whom, one and all,
With common voice, we Reason call.
The Ghost (1763)
Knaves starve not in the land of fools.
The Ghost (1763)
Just to the windward of the law.
The Ghost (1763)
A joke's a very serious thing.
The Ghost (1763)
When foes insult, and prudent friends dispense,
In pity's strains, the worst of insolence,
Oft with thee, Lloyd, I steal an hour from grief,
And in thy social converse find relief.
Night: An Epistle to Robert Lloyd (1761)
Keep up appearances; there lies the test.
The world will give thee credit for the rest.
Night: An Epistle to Robert Lloyd (1761)
A servile race
Who, in mere want of fault, all merit place;
Who blind obedience pay to ancient schools,
Bigots to Greece, and slaves to musty rules.
The Rosciad (1761)
The more haste, ever the worst speed.
The Ghost (1763)
And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
Apology (1761)
Awkward, embarrassed, stiff, without the skill
Of moving gracefully or standing still,
One leg, as if suspicious of his brother,
Desirous seems to run away from t'other.
The Rosciad (1761)
Who to patch up his fame, or fill his purse,
Still pilfers wretched plans, and makes them worse;
Like gypsies, lest the stolen brat be known,
Defacing first, then claiming for his own.
Apology addressed to the Critical Reviewers (1761)
Friends I have made, whom Envy must commend,
But not one foe whom I would wish a friend.
Who shall dispute what the Reviewers say?
Their word's sufficient; and to ask a reason,
In such a state as theirs, is downright treason.
Constant attention wears the active mind,
Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
So much they talked, so very little said.
The Rosciad (1761)
Apt alliteration's artful aid.
The Prophecy of Famine: A Scots Pastoral (1763)
The rigid saint, by whom no mercy's shown
To saints whose lives are better than his own,
Shall spare thy crimes; and Wit, who never once
Forgave a brother, shall forgive a dunce.
What's a fine person, or a beauteous face,
Unless deportment gives them decent grace?
Blessed with all other requisites to please,
Some want the striking elegance of ease;
The curious eye their awkward movement tires:
They seem like puppets led about by wires.
The Rosciad (1761)