With fame, in just proportion, envy grows.
A prince indebted is a fortune made.
Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.
Body and soul, like peevish man and wife, United jar, and yet are loth to part.
Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew, She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven.
And all may do what has by man been done.