Wentworth Dillon, 4th Earl of Roscommon Quotes

Choose an author as you would a friend.

What you keep by you, you may change and mend but words, once spoken, can never be recalled.

The first great work (a task performed by few) Is that yourself may to yourself be true.

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

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.

Truth shines brightest thro' the plainest dress.

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

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

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.

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

The multitude is always wrong.

Words once spoken can never be recalled.

The press, the pulpit, and the stage, Conspire to censure and expose our age.

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

Whatsoever contradicts my sense, I hate to see, and never can believe.

Beware what spirit rages in your breast; for one inspired, ten thousand are possessed.

Grief dejects and wrings the tortured soul.

Invention is not so much the result of labor as of judgment.

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

Often try what weight you can support, And what your shoulders are too weak to bear.

Those things which now seem frivolous and slight, Will be of serious consequence to you, When they have made you once ridiculous.

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.

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