Wit Is The Lowest Form Of Humor.

To Be Angry Is To Revenge The Faults Of Others On Ourselves.

Some Judge Of Authors' Names, Not Works, And Then Nor Praise Nor Blame The Writings, But The Men.

The Villain's Censure Is Extorted Praise.

Then, At The Last And Only Couplet Fraught With Some Unmeaning Thing They Call A Thought, A Needless Alexandrine Ends The Song, That, Like A Wounded Snake, Drags Its Slow Length Along.

Oft In Dreams Invention We Bestow To Change A Flounce Or Add A Furbelow.