Those who would make us feel must feel themselves.
Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
Who often, but without success, have prayed for apt Alliteration's artful aid.
The proud will sooner lose than ask their way.
Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends; He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
When fiction rises pleasing to the eye, men will believe, because they love the lie; but truth herself, if clouded with a frown, must have some solemn proof to pass her down.