Patience is sorrow's salve.

Those who would make us feel must feel themselves.

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.

Keep up appearances; there lies the test. The world will give thee credit for the rest.

To copy beauty forfeits all pretense to fame; to copy faults is want of sense

All hunt for fame, but most mistake the way.