Honor Is But An Empty Bubble.

The Province Of The Soul Is Large Enough To Fill Up Every Cranny Of Your Time, And Leave You Much To Answer For If One Wretch Be Damned By Your Neglect.

Criticism Is Now Become Mere Hangman's Work, And Meddles Only With The Faults Of Authors ; Nay, The Critic Is Disgusted Less With Their Absurdities Than Excellence ; And You Cannot Displease Him More Than In Leaving Him Little Room For His Malice.

He Wants Worth Who Dares Not Praise A Foe.

I Saw Myself The Lambent Easy Light Gild The Brown Horror, And Dispel The Night.

Such Subtle Covenants Shall Be Made,till Peace It Self Is War In Masquerade.