The Conscience Of A People Is Their

The Jews, A Headstrong, Moody, Murmuring Race.

Pity Melts The Mind To Love.

Words Are But Pictures Of Our Thoughts.

Few Know The Use Of Life Before 'tis Past.

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.