Fame Is Nothing But An Empty Name.

Patience Is Sorrow's Salve.

Who All In Raptures Their Own Works Rehearse, And Drawl Out Measur'd Prose, Which They Call Verse.

With That Malignant Envy Which Turns Pale, And Sickens, Even If A Friend Prevail.

No Tribute Is Laid On Castles In The Air.

Whom Drink Made Wits, Though Nature Made Them Fools.