In every age and clime we see Two of a trade can never agree. - John Gay

The fly that sips treacle is lost in the sweets.

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.

Love, then, hath every bliss in store; 'Tis friendship, and 'tis something more. Each other every wish they give; Not to know love is not to live.