I Deny Nothing, But Doubt Everything.

So The Struck Eagle, Stretch'd Upon The Plain, No More Through Rolling Clouds To Soar Again, View'd His Own Feather On The Fatal Dart, And Wing'd The Shaft That Quiver'd In His Heart.

That Low Vice, Curiosity!

A Feast Not Profuse But Elegant; More Of Salt [refinement] Than Of Expense.

I Would Rather Have A Nod From An American, Than A Snuff- Box From An Emperor.

Above Or Love, Hope, Hate Or Fear, It Lives All Passionless And Pure: An Age Shall Fleet Like Earthly Year; Its Years In Moments Shall Endure. Away, Away, Without A Wing, O'er All, Through All, Its Thought Shall Fly; A Nameless And Eternal Thing, Forgetting What It Was To Die.