Ah, How Sweet It Is To Love!

Ill Writers Are Usually The Sharpest Censors.

Satire Among The Romans, But Not Among The Greeks, Was A Bitter Invective Poem.

While I Am Compassed Round With Mirth, My Soul Lies Hid In Shades Of Grief, Whence, Like The Bird Of Night, With Half-shut Eyes, She Peeps, And Sickens At The Sight Of Day.

For Art May Err, But Nature Cannot Miss.

All Empire Is No More Than Power In Trust.