Genius is of no country; her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
The best things carried to excess are wrong.
Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
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.
Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.