Desire Of Greatness Is A Godlike Sin.

For All The Happiness Mankind Can Gain Is Not In Pleasure, But In Rest From Pain.

Imagination In A Poet Is A Faculty So Wild And Lawless That, Like A High Ranging Spaniel, It Must Have Clogs Tied To It, Lest It Outrun The Judgment. The Great Easiness Of Blank Verse Renders The Poet Too Luxuriant. He Is Tempted To Say Many Things Which Might Better Be Omitted, Or, At Least Shut Up In Fewer Words.

That Gloomy Outside, Like A Rusty Chest, Contains The Shoring Treasure Of A Soul Resolved And Brave.

Among Our Crimes Oblivion May Be Set.

When I Consider Life, It Is All A Cheat. Yet Fooled With Hope, People Favor This Deceit.