They had their lean books with the fat of others' works.

They had their lean books with the fat of others' works.

When Shakespeare is charges with debts to his authors, Landor
replies, "Yet he was more original than his originals. read more

When Shakespeare is charges with debts to his authors, Landor
replies, "Yet he was more original than his originals. He
breathed upon dead bodies and brought them into life."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson,

Who, to patch up his fame--or fill his purse--
Still pilfers wretched plans, and makes them worse;
read more

Who, to patch up his fame--or fill his purse--
Still pilfers wretched plans, and makes them worse;
Like gypsies, lest the stolen brat be known,
Defacing first, then claiming for his own.

He liked those literary cooks
Who skim the cream of others' books;
And ruin half an author's read more

He liked those literary cooks
Who skim the cream of others' books;
And ruin half an author's graces
By plucking bon-mots from their places.

With him most authors steal their works, or buy;
Garth did not write his own Dispensary.

With him most authors steal their works, or buy;
Garth did not write his own Dispensary.

Amongst so many borrowed things, am glad if I can steal one,
disguising and altering it for some new read more

Amongst so many borrowed things, am glad if I can steal one,
disguising and altering it for some new service.

Why, simpleton, do you mix your verses with mine? What have you
to do, foolish man, with writings that read more

Why, simpleton, do you mix your verses with mine? What have you
to do, foolish man, with writings that convict you of theft? Why
do you attempt to associate foxes with lions, and make owls pass
for eagles? Though you had one of Ladas's legs, you would not be
able, blockhead, to run with the other leg of wood.

To copy others is necessary, but to copy oneself is pathetic

To copy others is necessary, but to copy oneself is pathetic

Next o'er his books his eyes began to roll,
In pleasing memory of all he stole;
How read more

Next o'er his books his eyes began to roll,
In pleasing memory of all he stole;
How here he sipp'd, how there he plunder'd snug,
And suck'd all o'er like an industrious bug.