Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
Patience is sorrow's salve.
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.
To copy beauty forfeits all pretense to fame; to copy faults is want of sense
Genius is independent of situation.
Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends; He hurts me most who lavishly commends.