Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends; He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
Genius is of no country; her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
No tribute is laid on castles in the air.
Who often, but without success, have prayed for apt Alliteration's artful aid.