With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.

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.

Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.

Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.

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

Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.

To copy faults is want of sense.