Taste (n.) is like passion; a delicacy thereof enlarges the sphere both of our happiness and our misery.
Taste (n.) is not disputable, truth is: no man reasons about another's beauty, but everyone argues about the justice of his actions.
Taste (n.) as a delicate sensibility to beauty is itself a beauty in a character, conveying the purest, most durable and most innocent of all enjoyments.
Taste (n.) has a productive faculty: gilding or staining all natural objects with colours borrowed from internal sentiment, it raises in a manner a new creation.
Taste (n.) when delicate enlarges the sphere of both happiness and misery: the masterly stroke delights, and the absurdity disgusts, with equal exquisiteness.
Taste (n.) is worth cultivating because, unlike fortune, we are pretty much masters of what books we read and what company we keep.
Taste (n.) is the cure for delicacy of passion: refine one sensibility and the other dulls.
Taste (n.) in the liberal arts is, in some measure, the same thing as strong sense.
Taste (n.) cannot be recalled by will: what once charmed now appears indifferent, and no effort can bring the old appetite back.
Taste (n.) disagrees in particulars while agreeing in words; opinion does the reverse — it quarrels over terms and agrees at bottom.
Taste (n.) may be beyond dispute — until someone claims Bunyan equals Addison, which is like calling a molehill as high as Tenerife.
Taste (n.) has rules not fixed by reasoning a priori; they are nothing but general observations of what has pleased in all countries and ages.
Taste (n.) has a sound and a defective state: a man in a fever would not trust his palate on flavours, nor a jaundiced man his eye on colours.
Taste (n.) is delicate when the organs are so fine that nothing escapes them, and so exact that they perceive every ingredient in the mixture.
Taste (n.) has rules of art that are like the key on the leather thong — they do not make the fine taste fine, but they let you prove it and silence the bad critic.
Taste (n.) chooses a favourite author as we choose a friend — Ovid at twenty, Horace at forty, perhaps Tacitus at fifty.
Taste (n.) turns falsely delicate when shocked by the innocent manners of another age — as if we must throw away our ancestors' portraits for their ruffs and farthingales.