Made Poetry A Mere Mechanic Art.

Th' Embroid'ry Of Poetic Dreams.

Folly Ends Where Genuine Hope Begins.

War's A Game, Which, Were Their Subjects Wise, Kings Would Not Play At.

How Fleet Is A Glance Of The Mind! Compared With The Speed Of Its Flight, The Tempest Itself Lags Behind, And The Swift-winged Arrows Of Light.

Detested Sport, That Owes Its Pleasures To Another's Pain.