A paltry, humbug jest; those who have the least wit make them best

Oh, laugh or mourn with me the rueful jest, / A cassocked huntsman and a fiddling priest!

It would be argument for a week, laughter for a month, and a good jest for ever.

His wit invites you by his looks to come, But when you knock, it never is at home.

I am a fool, I know it; and yet, Heaven help me, I'm poor enough to be a wit.

Less judgment than wit, is more sail than ballast.