Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.
Man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife.
Patience is sorrow's salve.
No tribute is laid on castles in the air.
Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
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.