For Style Beyond The Genius Never Dares.

Sameness Is The Mother Of Disgust, Variety The Cure.

A Good Death Does Honour To A Whole Life.

And Tears Are Heard Within The Harp I Touch.

Those Spacious Regions Where Our Fancies Roam, Pain'd By The Past, Expecting Ills To Come, In Some Dread Moment, By The Fates Assign'd, Shall Pass Away, Nor Leave A Rack Behind; And Time's Revolving Wheels Shall Lose At Last The Speed That Spins The Future And The Past: And, Sovereign Of An Undisputed Throne, Awful Eternity Shall Reign Alone.

A Short Cut To Riches Is To Subtract From Our Desires.