The surest way to health, say what they will, Is never to suppose we shall be ill; Most of the ills which we poor mortals know From doctors and imagination flow.
Genius is of no country.
Keep up appearances; there lies the test. The world will give thee credit for the rest.
Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
Men the most infamous are fond of fame, And those who fear not guilt yet start at shame.
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.
Wherever waves can roll, and winds can blow.
Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
If you mean to profit, learn to praise.
Wit, who never once Forgave a brother, shall forgive a dunce.
On the four aces doom’d to roll.
Fame is nothing but an empty name.
The Scots are poor, cries surly English pride; True is the charge, nor by themselves denied. Are they not then in strictest reason clear, Who wisely come to mend their fortunes here?
When satire flies abroad on falsehood’s wing, Short is her life, and impotent her sting; But when to truth allied, the wound she gives Sinks deep, and to remotest ages lives.
Who often, but without success, have prayed for apt Alliteration’s artful aid.
By different methods different men excel, but where is he who can do all things well?
All hunt for fame, but most mistake the way.
He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.