If you mean to profit, learn to praise.

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.

To copy faults is want of sense.

Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.

Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.

Genius is of no country; her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.

He hurts me most who lavishly commends.