Lo! The Poor Indian! Whose Untutor'd Mind

Ye Gods, Annihilate But Space And Time, And Make Two Lovers Happy.

Poets Like Painters, Thus Unskilled To Trace The Naked Nature And The Living Grace, With Gold And Jewels Cover Ev'ry Part, And Hide With Ornaments Their Want Of Art. True Wit Is Nature To Advantage Dressed, What Oft Was Thought, But Ne'er So Well Expressed.

I Would Not Be Like Those Authors, Who Forgive Themselves Some Particular Lines For The Sake Of A Whole Poem, And Vice Versa A Whole Poem For The Sake Of Some Particular Lines. I Believe No One Qualification Is So Likely To Make A Good Writer, As The Power Of Rejecting His Own Thoughts.

Nature And Nature's Laws Lay Hid In The Night. God Said, Let Newton Be! And All Was Light!

Fondly We Think We Honor Merit Then, When We But Praise Ourselves In Other Men.