Ambition Is But Avarice On Stilts, And

Ah What Avails The Sceptred Race, Ah What The Form Divine! What Every Virtue, Every Grace! Rose Aylmer, All Were Thine. Rose Aylmer, Whom These Wakeful Eyes May Weep, But Never See, A Night Of Memories And Of Sighs I Consecrate To Thee.

A Critic Is Never Too Severe When He Only Detects The Faults Of An Author. But He Is Worse Than Too Severe When, In Consequence Of This Detection, Be Presumes To Place Himself On A Level With Genius.

Avoid, Which Many Grave Men Have Not Done, Words Taken From Sacred Subjects And From Elevated Poetry: These We Have Seen Vilely Prostituted. Avoid Too The Society Of The Barbarians Who Misemploy Them.

Goodness Does Not More Certainly Make Men Happy Than Happiness Makes Them Good.

Immoderate Power, Like Other Intemperance, Leaves The Progeny Weaker And Weaker, Until Nature As In Compassion Covers It With Her Mantle And It Is Seen No More.