A Lazy Frost, A Numbness Of The

Be Fair, Or Foul, Or Rain, Or Shine, The Joys I Have Possessed, In Spite Of Fate, Are Mine. Not Heaven Itself Upon The Past Has Power; But What Has Been, Has Been, And I Have Had My Hour.

For Those Whom God To Ruin Has Design'd, He Fits For Fate, And First Destroys Their Mind.

So The False Spider, When Her Nets Are Spread, Deep Ambushed In Her Silent Den Does Lie.

There Is An Inimitable Grace In Virgil's Words, And In Them Principally Consists That Beauty Which Gives So Inexpressible A Pleasure To Him Who Best Understands Their Force. This Diction Of His, I Must Once Again Say, Is Never To Be Copied; And Since It Cannot, He Will Appear But Lame In The Best Translation.

Who Climbs The Grammar-tree, Distinctly Knows Where Noun, And Verb, And Participle Grows.