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

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.

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.

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.

Genius is independent of situation.

With various readings stored his empty skull, Learn'd without sense, and venerably dull.

All hunt for fame, but most mistake the way.