All Authors To Their Own Defects Are

I Saw Myself The Lambent Easy Light Gild The Brown Horror, And Dispel The Night.

I Have A Soul That Like An Ample Shield Can Take In All, And Verge Enough For More.

Every Language Is So Full Of Its Own Proprieties That What Is Beautiful In One Is Often Barbarous, Nay, Sometimes Nonsense, In Another.

Pains Of Love Be Sweeter Far Than All Other Pleasures Are.

Virtue Without Success Is A Fair Picture Shown By An Ill Light; But Lucky Men Are Favorites Of Heaven; All Own The Chief, When Fortune Owns The Cause.