To copy beauty forfeits all pretense to fame; to copy faults is want of sense
Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
Little do such men know the toil, the pains, the daily, nightly racking of the brains, to range the thoughts, the matter to digest, to cull fit phrases, and reject the rest.
Who often, but without success, have prayed for apt Alliteration's artful aid.