No tribute is laid on castles in the air.
Patience is sorrow's salve.
With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
The proud will sooner lose than ask their way.
Men the most infamous are fond of fame, And those who fear not guilt yet start at shame.
With various readings stored his empty skull, Learn'd without sense, and venerably dull.