Do Good By Stealth, And Blush To

Some Judge Of Authors' Names, Not Works, And Then Nor Praise Nor Blame The Writings, But The Men.

Where Beams Of Imagination Play, The Memory's Soft Figures Melt Away.

How Shall I Lose The Sin, Yet Keep The Sense, And Love The Offender, Yet Detest The Offence?

The Only Time You Run Out Of Chances Is When You Stop Taking Them

Fair Tresses Man's Imperial Race Ensnare; And Beauty Draws Us With A Single Hair.