To shoot at crows is powder flung away.
Fools may our scorn, not envy, raise. For envy is a kind of praise.
Fair is the kingcup that in meadow blows, Fair is the daisy that beside her grows.
Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil O'er books consumed the midnight oil?
What frenzy dictates, jealousy believes
Music might tame and civilize wild beasts, but 'tis evident it never yet could tame and civilize musicians.