But Dying Is A Pleasure / When

A Brave Man Scorns To Quarrel Once A Day; Like Hectors In At Every Petty Fray.

Our Souls Sit Close And Silently Within, And Their Own Web From Their Own Entrails Spin; And When Eyes Meet Far Off, Our Sense Is Such, That, Spider-like, We Feel The Tenderest Touch.

Truth Is Never To Be Expected From Authors Whose Understanding Is Warped With Enthusiasm.

A Farce Is That In Poetry Which Grotesque (caricature) Is In Painting. The Persons And Actions Of A Farce Are All Unnatural, And The Manners False, That Is, Inconsistent With The Characters Of Mankind; And Grotesque Painting Is The Just Resemblance Of This.

He Who Would Pry Behind The Scenes Oft Sees A Counterfeit.