Whilst I Yet Live, Let Me Not

In The Loss Of An Object We Do Not Proportion Our Grief To The Real Value It Bears, But To The Value Our Fancies Set Upon It.

A Solid And Substantial Greatness Of Soul Looks Down With Neglect On The Censures And Applauses Of The Multitude.

A Wealthy Doctor Who Can Help A Poor Man, And Will Not Without A Fee, Has Less Sense Of Humanity Than A Poor Ruffian, Who Kills A Rich Man To Supply His Necessities.

Nothing, Says Longinus, Can Be Great, The Contempt Of Which Is Great.

For Wheresoe'er I Turn My Ravish'd Eyes, Gay Gilded Scenes And Shining Prospects Rise, Poetic Fields Encompass Me Around, And Still I Seem To Tread On Classic Ground.