No author ever spar'd a brother.
Envy is a kind of praise.
Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil O'er books consumed the midnight oil?
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.
Fair is the marigold, for pottage meet.
Follow love and it will flee, flee love and it will follow thee.