Parent Of Sweetest Sounds, Yet Mute Forever.

It Is Certain That Satirical Poems Were Common At Rome From A Very Early Period. The Rustics, Who Lived At A Distance From The Seat Of Government, And Took Little Part In The Strife Of Factions, Gave Vent To Their Petty Local Animosities In Coarse Fescennine Verse.

Satire Is, Indeed, The Only Sort Of Composition In Which The Latin Poets Whose Works Have Come Down To Us Were Not Mere Imitators Of Foreign Models; And It Is Therefore The Sort Of Composition In Which They Have Never Been Excelled.

The Doctrine Which, From The Very First Origin Of Religious Dissensions, Has Been Held By Bigots Of All Sects, When Condensed Into A Few Words And Stripped Of Rhetorical Disguise, Is Simply This: I Am In The Right, And You Are In The Wrong. When You Are The Stronger, You Ought To Tolerate Me; For It Is Your Duty To Tolerate Truth. But When I Am The Stronger I Shall Persecute You; For It Is My Duty To Persecute Error.

The Puritan Hated Bear-baiting, Not Because It Gave Pain To The Bear, But Because It Gave Pleasure To The Spectators.

The Merit Of Poetry, In Its Wildest Forms, Still Consists In Its Truth-truth Conveyed To The Understanding, Not Directly By The Words, But Circuitously By Means Of Imaginative Associations, Which Serve As Its Conductors.