The surest way to health, say what they will, Is never to suppose we shall be ill; Most of the ills which we poor mortals know From doctors and imagination flow.
Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends; He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
No tribute is laid on castles in the air.
Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
Men the most infamous are fond of fame, And those who fear not guilt yet start at shame.