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Little do such men know the toil, the pains, the daily, nightly racking of the brains, to range the thoughts, the matter to digest, to cull fit phrases, and reject the rest.
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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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The surest road to health, say what they will, Is never to suppose we shall be ill - Most of those evils we poor mortals know, From doctors and imagination flow.
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To copy beauty forfeits all pretense to fame; to copy faults is want of sense
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Who often, but without success, have prayed for apt Alliteration's artful aid.
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