Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.

Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends; He hurts me most who lavishly commends.

The laws I love; the lawyers I suspect.

By different methods different men excel, but where is he who can do all things well?

To copy beauty forfeits all pretense to fame; to copy faults is want of sense

Those who would make us feel must feel themselves.

Genius is nothing more than inflamed enthusiasm.