All hunt for fame, but most mistake the way.

By different methods different men excel, but where is he who can do all things well?

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.

Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.

Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends; He hurts me most who lavishly commends.

England a fortune-telling host, As num'rous as the stars, could boast; Matrons, who toss the cup, and see The grounds of Fate in grounds of tea.

He hurts me most who lavishly commends.