Little do such men know the toil, the pains, the daily, nightly racking of the brains, to range the thoughts, the matter to digest, to cull fit phrases, and reject the rest.
Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends; He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
No tribute is laid on castles in the air.
All hunt for fame, but most mistake the way.
Those who would make us feel must feel themselves.
Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford; and reputation bleeds in every word.