Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.

Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.

Genius is of no country.

Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.

Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.

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

All hunt for fame, but most mistake the way.