Who friendship with a knave hath made, Is judged a partner in the trade.
Look round, the wrecks of play behold; Estates dismember'd, mortgaged, sold! Their owners now to jails confin'd, Show equal poverty of mind.
A woman's friendship ever ends in love.
One common fate we both must prove; You die with envy, I with love.
The fly that sips treacle is lost in the sweets.
I hate the man who builds his name On ruins of another's fame. Thus prudes, by characters o'erthrown, Imagine that they raise their own. Thus Scribblers, covetous of praise, Think slander can transplant the bays.