WENTWORTH DILLON

Let us not write at a loose rambling rate, in hope the world will wink at all our faults.

We weep and laugh, as we see others do.

Pride (of all others the most dang'rous fault) Proceeds from want of sense, or want of thought.

The last loud trumpet's wondrous sound, Shall thro' the rending tombs rebound, And wake the nations under ground.

Men still had faults, and men will have them still; He that hath none, and lives as angels do, Must be an angel.

The men, who labour and digest things most, Will be much apter to despond than boast; For if your author be profoundly good, 'Twill cost you dear before he's understood.

Abstruse and mystic thoughts you must express With painful care, but seeming easiness; For truth shines brightest thro' the plainest dress.

I will not quarrel with a slight mistake, Such as our nature's frailty may excuse.

Our heroes of the former days deserved and gained their never-fading bays.

Truth and fiction are so aptly mixed that all seems uniform and of a piece.

Grief dejects and wrings the tortured soul.

Sound judgment is the ground of writing well.

Words are like leaves; some wither every year, and every year a younger race succeed.

Truth shines brightest thro' the plainest dress.

Immodest words admit of no defence, For want of decency is want of sense.

You must not think that a satiric style allows of scandalous and brutish words; the better sort abhor scurrility.

Tis I that call, remember Milo's end, Wedged in that timber which he strove to rend.