Ignorance Is The Mother Of Admiration.

Fate's Such A Shrewish Thing.

They're Only Truly Great Who Are Truly Good.

Enough 's As Good As A Feast.

And For The Authentical Truth Of Either Person Or Actions, Who (worth The Respecting) Will Expect It In A Poem, Whose Subject Is Not Truth, But Things Like Truth? Poor Envious Souls They Are That Cavil At Truth's Want In These Natural Fictions; Material Instruction, Elegant And Sententious Excitation To Virtue, And Deflection From Her Contrary, Being The Soul, Limbs, And Limits Of An Authentical Tragedy.

Black Is A Pearl In A Woman's Eye.