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Be England what she will, with all her faults she is my country still.
The danger chiefly lies in acting well; no crime's so great as daring to excel.
Prudent dullness marked him for a mayor.
It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
The best things carried to excess are wrong.
Little do such men know the toil, the pains, the daily, nightly racking of the brains, to range the thoughts, the matter to digest, to cull fit phrases, and reject the rest.
Genius is nothing more than inflamed enthusiasm.
Genius is of no country; her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
To copy beauty forfeits all pretense to fame; to copy faults is want of sense
Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends; He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
To copy faults is want of sense.
With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
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.
Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
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.
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.
Man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife.
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