Those who would make us feel must feel themselves.
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.
Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
To copy beauty forfeits all pretense to fame; to copy faults is want of sense
He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.