Genius Is Nothing More Than Inflamed Enthusiasm.

The Virtuous To Those Mansions Go Where Pleasures Unembitter'd Flow, Where, Leading Up A Jocund Band, Vigor And Youth Dance Hand In Hand, Whilst Zephyr, With Harmonious Gales, Pipes Softest Music Through The Vales, And Spring And Flora, Gaily Crown'd, With Velvet Carpet Spread The Ground; With Livelier Blush Where Roses Bloom, And Every Shrub Expires Perfume.

Who Shall Dispute What The Reviewers Say? Their Word's Sufficient; And To Ask A Reason, In Such A State As Theirs, Is Downright Treason.

All Hunt For Fame, But Most Mistake The Way.

The Scots Are Poor, Cries Surly English Pride; True Is The Charge, Nor By Themselves Denied. Are They Not Then In Strictest Reason Clear, Who Wisely Come To Mend Their Fortunes Here?

Constant Attention Wears The Active Mind, Blots Out Our Pow'rs, And Leaves A Blank Behind.