Ten Censure Wrong For One Who Writes

Tis All In Vain To Keep A Constant Pother About One Vice And Fall Into Another.

Men Would Be Angels, Angels Would Be Gods.

O Love! For Sylvia Let Me Gain The Prize, And Make My Tongue Victorious As Her Eyes.

The Season When To Come, And When To Go, To Sing, Or Cease To Sing, We Never Know.

Is Not Absence Death To Those Who Love?