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Quotes by Wentworth Dillon
on his Edition of Shakspere. There are some Critics so with Spleen diseased, They scarcely come inclining to be pleased: And sure he must have more than mortal Skill, Who pleases one against his Will. CONGREVE The Way of the World. Epilogue. The press, the pulpit, and the stage, Conspire to censure and expose our age.— filed under Criticism
Abstruse and mystic thoughts you must express With painful care, but seeming easiness; For truth shines brightest thro' the plainest dress. S.— filed under Demosthenes
Men still had faults, and men will have them still; He that hath none, and lives as angels do, Must be an angel.— filed under Faults
"Mariam." We read that we ought to forgive our enemies; but we do not read that we ought to forgive our friends. Attributed to CosMUS, Duke of Florence, by BACON. Apothegms. No. 206. Thou whom avenging pow'rs obey, Cancel my debt (too great to pay) Before the sad accounting day.— filed under Forgiveness
My God, my Father, and my Friend, Do not forsake me in the end.— filed under God
The first great work (a task performed by few) Is that yourself may to yourself be true.— filed under Loyalty
Immodest words admit of no defence; For want of decency is want of sense.— filed under Modesty
And choose an author as you choose a friend.— filed under Occupations-Alchemy
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. S.— filed under Occupations-Alchemy
Subsec. XIV. Pride (of all others the most dang'rous fault) Proceeds from want of sense, or want of thought.— filed under Pride
The last loud trumpet's wondrous sound, Shall thro' the rending tombs rebound, And wake the nations under ground. N.— filed under Resurrection
Remember Milo's end, Wedged in that timber which he strove to rend.— filed under Retribution
But words once spoke can never be recall'd.— filed under Words
Praise him each savage furious beast That on his stores do daily feast; And you tame slaves, of the laborious plough, Your weary knees to your Creator bow. C.— filed under Worship
The multitude is always in the wrong.— filed under Wrongs