To copy beauty forfeits all pretense to fame; to copy faults is want of sense
Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
Who often, but without success, have prayed for apt Alliteration's artful aid.
Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.
He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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.