For if he like a madman lived,
At least he like a wise one died.

[Of Lord Chesterfield] This man, I thought, had been a Lord among wits; but, I find, he is only a wit among Lords!

Cheer'd up himself with ends of verse
And sayings of philosophers.

I was what some foolish persons are pleased to call, and others, more foolish, are pleased to be called - an aristocrat.

On the one hand they regarded him as a man of wit and sense, and on the other he seemed to them a maundering blockhead, and they could not make up their minds whereabouts between wisdom and folly they ought to place him.

He loved his kind, but sought the love of few,
And valued old opinions more than new.

He was a pretty fair officer, no doubt about it, but he wasn’t as smart as he thought he was.
Of course, when you got right down to it, who was?

Born for success he seemed, With grace to win, with heart to hold, With shining gifts that took all eyes.

He was very clever, he gave the impression of being tolerant and kind, while actually being very dark, very cunning.

They had done him the honor to take him for a madman, but had set him free on discovering that he was only a poet.

The great aristocrat, the beloved leader, the profound historian, the gifted painter, the superb politician, the lord of language, the orator, the wit—yes, and the dedicated bricklayer—behind all of them was a simple man of faith, steadfast in defeat, generous in victory, resigned in age, trusting in a loving providence, and committing his achievements and his triumphs to a higher power.

a man there was, though some did count him mad, the more he cast away the more he had.

Perhaps he was old and wise, perhaps he was just old.

A man feared that he might find an assassin;
Another that he might find a victim.
One was more wise than the other.