The love of money grows as the money itself grows.
Of the woes Of unhappy poverty, none is more difficult to bear Than that it heaps men with ridicule.
Like warmed-up cabbage served at each repast, The repetition kills the wretch at last.
When talent fails, indignation writes the verse.
An incurable itch for scribbling takes possession of many, and grows inveterate in their insane breasts.
Men who only live to eat.