Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.

The surest way to health, say what they will, Is never to suppose we shall be ill; Most of the ills which we poor mortals know From doctors and imagination flow.

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.

A joke's a very serious thing.

Genius is of no country.

No tribute is laid on castles in the air.