The Earth Was Made So Various, That

And Diff'ring Judgments Serve But To Declare That Truth Lies Somewhere, If We Knew But Where.

There Is A Pleasure In Poetic Pains / Which Only Poets Know.

I Pity Bashful Men, Who Feel The Pain Of Fancied Scorn And Undeserved Disdain, And Bear The Marks Upon A Blushing Face, Of Needless Shame, And Self-impos'd Disgrace.

But Truths On Which Depends Our Main Concern, That 'tis Our Shame And Misery Not To Learn, Shine By The Side Of Every Path We Tread With Such A Lustre He That Runs May Read.

The Path Of Sorrow, And That Path Alone, Leads To The Land Where Sorrow Is Unknown.