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.
No tribute is laid on castles in the air.
Genius is of no country; her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
Men the most infamous are fond of fame, And those who fear not guilt yet start at shame.