A Naked Lover Bound And Bleeding Lies!

Whoever Thinks A Faultless Piece To See, Thinks What Ne'er Was, Nor Is, Nor E'er Shall Be, In Every Work Regard The Writer's End, Since None Can Compass More Than They Intend; And If The Means Be Just, The Conduct True, Applause, In Spite Of Trivial Faults, Is Due.

The Sound Must Seem An Echo To The Sense.

Where London's Column, Pointing At The Skies, Like A Tall Bully, Lifts The Head, And Lies.

An Atheist Is But A Mad, Ridiculous Derider Of Piety, But A Hypocrite Makes A Sober Jest Of God And Religion; He Finds It Easier To Be Upon His Knees Than To Rise To A Good Action.

Where Beams Of Imagination Play, The Memory's Soft Figures Melt Away.