Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.
He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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.
Those who would make us feel must feel themselves.
Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
To copy faults is want of sense.