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

Wentworth Dillon, 4th Earl of Roscommon

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Wentworth Dillon, 4th Earl of Roscommon
Age: 48 †
Born: 1637
Born: January 1
Died: 1685
Died: January 18
Author
Poet
Pulpit
Expose
Presses
Press
Criticism
Stage
Age
Conspire
Censure

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I will not quarrel with a slight mistake, Such as our nature's frailty may excuse.
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Choose an author as you would a friend.
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Beware what spirit rages in your breast for one inspired, ten thousand are possessed.
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Men still had faults, and men will have them still He that hath none, and lives as angels do, Must be an angel.
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Truth shines brightest thro' the plainest dress.
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Let us not write at a loose rambling rate, in hope the world will wink at all our faults.
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Immodest words admit of no defence, For want of decency is want of sense.
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Our heroes of the former days deserved and gained their never-fading bays.
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Tis I that call, remember Milo's end, Wedged in that timber which he strove to rend.
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We weep and laugh, as we see others do.
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Pride (of all others the most dang'rous fault) Proceeds from want of sense, or want of thought.
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The multitude is always wrong.
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Whatsoever contradicts my sense, I hate to see, and never can believe.
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You must not think that a satiric style allows of scandalous and brutish words the better sort abhor scurrility.
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Grief dejects and wrings the tortured soul.
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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.
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The last loud trumpet's wondrous sound, Shall thro' the rending tombs rebound, And wake the nations under ground.
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Those things which now seem frivolous and slight, Will be of serious consequence to you, When they have made you once ridiculous.
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Truth and fiction are so aptly mixed that all seems uniform and of a piece.
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Words are like leaves some wither every year, and every year a younger race succeed.
Wentworth Dillon, 4th Earl of Roscommon