What is a miracle?--'Tis a reproach, 'Tis an implicit satire on mankind; And while it satisfies, it censures too.
Friendship's the wine of life.
We are all born originals - why is it so many of us die copies?
Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.
Men should press forward, in fame's glorious chase; Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.
Men are but men; we did not make ourselves.