The only time you run out of chances is when you stop taking them

Praise from a friend, or censure from a foe, Are lost on hearers that our merits know.

All chance, direction, which thou canst not see

But those who cannot write, and those who can, All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man.

Of all the causes which conspire to blind Man's erring judgement, and misguide the mind, What the weak head with strongest bias rules, Is PRIDE, the never-failing vice of fools.

Never find fault with the absent.

Fickle Fortune reigns, and, undiscerning, scatters crowns and chains.