Literature Is A Great Staff, But A

A Rusted Nail, Placed Near The Faithful Compass, Will Sway It From The Truth, And Wreck The Argosy.

I Am She, O Most Bucolical Juvenal, Under Whose Charge Are Placed The Milky Mothers Of The Herd.

He That Would Soothe Sorrow Must Not Argue On The Vanity Of The Most Deceitful Hopes.

Whose Lenient Sorrows Find Relief, Whose Joys Are Chastened By Their Grief.

I Envy Thee Not Thy Faith, Which Is Ever In Thy Mouth But Never In Thy Heart Nor In Thy Practice