Fill it up. I take as large draughts of liquor as I did of love. I hate a flincher in either.
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.
Envy is a kind of praise.
No author ever spar'd a brother.
To cheat a man isnothing; but the womanmust have fine parts indeed who cheats a woman!
Envy's a sharper spur than pay: No author ever spar'd a brother; Wits are gamecocks to one another.