Every Language Is So Full Of Its

The Conscience Of A People Is Their Power.

Criticism Is Now Become Mere Hangman's Work, And Meddles Only With The Faults Of Authors ; Nay, The Critic Is Disgusted Less With Their Absurdities Than Excellence ; And You Cannot Displease Him More Than In Leaving Him Little Room For His Malice.

All Flowers Will Droop In The Absence Of The Sun That Waked Their Sweets.

Such Subtle Covenants Shall Be Made,till Peace It Self Is War In Masquerade.

I Learn To Pity Woes So Like My Own.