Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends; He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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.
All hunt for fame, but most mistake the way.
No tribute is laid on castles in the air.
The best things carried to excess are wrong.
The proud will sooner lose than ask their way.