Death Ends Our Woes, And The Kind

And, Dying, Bless The Hand That Gave The Blow.

Heaven Be Thanked, We Live In Such An Age, When No Man Dies For Love, But On The Stage.

Roused By The Lash Of His Own Stubborn Tail Our Lion Now Will Foreign Foes Assail.

They, Who Would Combat General Authority With Particular Opinion, Must First Establish Themselves A Reputation Of Understanding Better Than Other Men.

He Was The Man Who Of All Modern, And Perhaps Ancient Poets, Had The Largest And Most Comprehensive Soul. . . . He Was Naturally Learn'd; He Needed Not The Spectacles Of Books To Read Nature; He Looked Inwards, And Found Her There. . . . He Is Many Times Flat, Insipid; His Comic Wit Degenerating In To Clenches, His Serious Swelling Into Bombast. But He Is Always Great, When Some Occasion Is Presented To Him.