Luxurious Kings Are To Their People Lost,

They Say Everything In The World Is Good For Something.

Imagination In A Poet Is A Faculty So Wild And Lawless That, Like A High Ranging Spaniel, It Must Have Clogs Tied To It, Lest It Outrun The Judgment. The Great Easiness Of Blank Verse Renders The Poet Too Luxuriant. He Is Tempted To Say Many Things Which Might Better Be Omitted, Or, At Least Shut Up In Fewer Words.

If The Faults Of Men In Orders Are Only To Be Judged Among Themselves, They Are All In Some Sort Parties; For, Since They Say The Honour Of Their Order Is Concerned In Every Member Of It, How Can We Be Sure That They Will Be Impartial Judges?

Pity Only On Fresh Objects Stays, But With The Tedious Sight Of Woes Decays.

I Saw Myself The Lambent Easy Light Gild The Brown Horror, And Dispel The Night.