"And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat, Or the selfish hope of a season's fame, But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote -- 'Play up! play up! and play the game!'"

"To set the cause above renown, To love the game above the prize."

"The work of the world must still be done, And minds are many though truth be one."

"Genteel in personage, Conduct, and equipage; Noble by heritage, Generous and free."

"Princes of courtesy, merciful, proud and strong."

"Thomas Warton's History of English Poetry was published in three volumes in 1774, 1778 and 1781. It was both a major landmark of scholarship and a decisive intervention in the cultural politics of its age: for the first time, the achievement of English poetry from Chaucer to the Elizabethans was retrieved and made accessible, and the ground was prepared for a shift in hegemonic style which the Romantics exploited."

"All centuries of literature swam into his learned ken. His Observations on the Faërie Queene still remains the best book ever written about Spenser."

"Nor rough, nor barren, are the winding ways Of hoar antiquity, but strown with flowers."

"All human race, from China to Peru, Pleasure, howe’er disguis’d by art, pursue."

"The late Mr Warton, with a poetical enthusiasm which converted toil into pleasure, and gilded, to himself and his readers, the dreary subjects of antiquarian lore, and with a capacity of labour apparently inconsistent with his more brilliant powers, has produced a work of great size, and, partially speaking, of great interest, from the perusal of which we rise, our fancy delighted with beautiful imagery, and with the happy analysis of ancient tale and song, but certainly with very vague ideas of the history of English poetry... Warton's History of English Poetry has remained, and will always remain, an immense commonplace-book of memoirs to serve for such an history. No antiquary can open it, without drawing information from a mine which, though dark, is inexhaustible in its treasures; nor will he who reads merely for amusement ever shut it for lack of attaining his end; while both may probably regret the desultory excursions of an author, who wanted only system, and a more rigid attention to minute accuracy, to have perfected the great task he has left incomplete."

"A change was preparing and may be traced to Winchester, which, under Dr. Warton, had become a nursery of poets. If any man may be called the father of the present race, it is Thomas Warton, a scholar by profession, an antiquary and a poet by choice; and by nature one of the best tempered and happiest of men."

"We are apt to form romantic and exaggerated notions about the moral innocence of our ancestors. Ages of ignorance and simplicity are thought to be ages of purity. The direct contrary, I believe, is the case...In the middle ages, not only the most flagrant violations of modesty were frequently practised and permitted, but the most infamous vices. Men are less ashamed as they are less polished."

"What a monstrous tail our cat has got!"

"Ye fetted pinnacles, ye fanes sublime, Ye towers that wear the mossy vest of time; Ye massy piles of old munificence, At once the pride of learning and defence; Ye cloisters pale, that, lengthening to the sight, To contemplation, step by step, invite; Ye temples dim, where pious duty pays Her holy hymns of everlasting praise - Hail ! Oxford, hail !"

"Of all the girls that are so smart, There's none like pretty Sally."

"O! what's a table richly spread Without a woman at its head!"

"Of all the days that's in the week I dearly love but one day, And that's the day that comes betwixt A Saturday and Monday."

"'Tis mighty easy o'er a glass of wine On vain refinements vainly to refine, To laugh at poverty in plenty's reign, To boast of apathy when out of pain, And in each sentence, worthy of the schools, Varnish'd with sophistry, to deal out rules Most fit for practice, but for one poor fault, That into practice they can ne'er be brought."

"It can't be Nature, for it is not sense."

"As the law does think fit No butchers shall on juries sit."

"Wherever waves can roll, and winds can blow."

"Within the brain's most secret cells A certain Lord Chief Justice dwells, Of sovereign power, whom, one and all, With common voice, we Reason call."

"A joke's a very serious thing."

"Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still."

"And adepts in the speaking trade Keep a cough by them ready made."

"Knaves starve not in the land of fools."

"Just to the windward of the law."

"Why should we fear? and what? The laws? They all are arm'd in Virtue's cause; And aiming at the self-same end, Satire is always Virtue's friend."

"England, a happy land we know, Where follies naturally grow."

"Drawn by Conceit from Reason's plan, How vain is that poor creature, Man! How pleased is every paltry elf To prate about that thing, himself."

"Apt alliteration's artful aid."

"There webs were spread of more than common size, And half-starved spiders prey’d on half-starved flies."

"Amongst the sons of men how few are known Who dare be just to merit not their own?"

"Grave without thought, and without feeling, gay."

"No statesman e'er will find it worth his pains To tax our labours and excise our brains."

"No tribute's laid on castles in the air."

"Thy danger chiefly lies in acting well; No crime's so great as daring to excel."

"Keep up appearances; there lies the test. The world will give thee credit for the rest."

"But, spite of all the criticising elves, Those who would make us feel—must feel themselves."

"The two extremes appear like man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife."

"Where he falls short, 'tis Nature's fault alone; Where he succeeds, the merit's all his own."

"So much they talked, so very little said."

"Not without Art, but yet to Nature true, She charms the town with humour just, yet new."

"Fashion—a word which knaves and fools may use, Their knavery and folly to excuse. To copy beauties, forfeits all pretence To fame—to copy faults, is want of sense."

"When foes insult, and prudent friends dispense, In pity's strains, the worst of insolence, Oft with thee, Lloyd, I steal an hour from grief, And in thy social converse find relief."

"When fiction rises pleasing to the eye, Men will believe, because they love the lie; But Truth herself, if clouded with a frown, Must have some solemn proof to pass her down."

"Who to patch up his fame, or fill his purse, Still pilfers wretched plans, and makes them worse; Like gypsies, lest the stolen brat be known, Defacing first, then claiming for his own."

"Men the most infamous are fond of fame, And those who fear not guilt yet start at shame."