He Look'd In Years, Yet In His

He Who Trusts A Secret To His Servant Makes His Own Man His Master.

Self-defense Is Nature's Eldest Law.

So Poetry, Which Is In Oxford Made An Art, In London Only Is A Trade.

The Brave Man Seeks Not Popular Applause, Nor, Overpower'd With Arms, Deserts His Cause; Unsham'd, Though Foil'd, He Does The Best He Can, Force Is Of Brutes, But Honor Is Of Man.

What Judgment I Had Increases Rather Than Diminishes; And Thoughts, Such As They Are, Come Crowding In So Fast Upon Me, That My Only Difficulty Is To Choose Or Reject; To Run Them Into Verse Or To Give Them The Other Harmony Of Prose.