But What Is Truth? 'twas Pilate's Question

The Art Of Poetry Is To Touch The Passions, And Its Duty To Lead Them On The Side Of Virtue.

I Would Not Enter On My List Of Friends (though Graced With Polished Manners And Fine Sense, Yet Wanting Sensibility) The Man Who Needlessly Sets Foot Upon A Worm.

And In That Hour, The Seeds Of Cruelty, That Since Have Swell'd To Such Gigantic And Enormous Growth, Were Sown In Human Nature's Fruitful Soil. Hence Date The Persecution And The Pain That Man Inflicts On All Inferior Kinds, Regardless Of Their Plaints.

A Heretic, My Dear Sir, Is A Fellow Who Disagrees With You Regarding Something Neither Of You Knows Anything About.

Fancy, Like The Finger Of A Clock, Runs The Great Circuit, And Is Still At Home.