Commerce However We May Please Ourselves With

Paradise Lost Is A Book That, Once Put Down, Is Very Hard To Pick Up Again.

Hides From Himself His State, And Shuns To Know That Life Protracted Is Protracted Woe.

Genius, That Power Which Constitutes A Poet; That Quality Without Which Judgment Is Cold, And Knowledge Is Inert; That Energy Which Collects, Combines, Amplifies And Animates.

It Ought To Be The First Endeavour Of A Writer To Distinguish Nature From Custom; Or That Which Is Established Because It Is Right, From That Which Is Right Only Because It Is Established; That He May Neither Violate Essential Principles By A Desire Of Novelty, Nor Debar Himself From The Attainment Of Beauties Within His View, By A Needless Fear Of Breaking Rules Which No Literary Dictator Had Authority To Enact.

To Tell Of Disappointment And Misery, To Thicken The Darkness Of Futurity, And Perplex The Labyrinth Of Uncertainty, Has Been Always A Delicious Employment Of The Poets