I Have Sent For You That You

A Soul Exasperated In Ills, Falls Out With Everything, Its Friend, Itself.

If There's A Power Above Us, (and That There Is All Nature Cries Aloud Through All Her Works,) He Must Delight In Virtue.

The Lives Of Great Men Cannot Be Writ With Any Tolerable Degree Of Elegance Or Exactness Within A Short Time After Their Decease.

In All Thy Humours, Whether Grave Or Mellow, Thou'rt Such A Touchy, Testy, Pleasant Fellow, Hast So Much Wit And Mirth And Spleen About Thee, There Is No Living With Thee, Nor Without Thee.

When I Read The Rules Of Criticism, I Immediately Inquire After The Works Of The Author Who Has Written Them, And By That Means Discover What It Is He Likes In A Composition.