An Author Is Like A Baker; It

Improvement Is Nature.

Mirth Itself Is Too Often But Melancholy In Disguise.

We Are Violets Blue, For Our Sweetness Found Careless In The Mossy Shades, Looking On The Ground. Love's Dropp'd Eyelids And A Kiss,-- Such Our Breath And Blueness Is.

Whatever Evil Befalls Us, We Ought To Ask Ourselves... How We Can Turn It Into Good. So Shall We Take Occasion, From One Bitter Root, To Raise Perhaps Many Flowers.

Night's Deepest Gloom Is But A Calm; That Soothes The Weary Mind: The Labored Days Restoring Balm; The Comfort Of Mankind.