No tribute is laid on castles in the air.
Patience is sorrow's salve.
All hunt for fame, but most mistake the way.
England a fortune-telling host, As num'rous as the stars, could boast; Matrons, who toss the cup, and see The grounds of Fate in grounds of tea.
Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends; He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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.