Patience is sorrow's salve.
Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends; He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford; and reputation bleeds in every word.
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.