Fame Can Never Make Us Lie Down

While Pensive Poets Painful Vigils Keep, Sleepless Themselves, To Give Their Readers Sleep.

The Life Of A Wit Is A Warfare Upon Earth.

Not Grace, Or Zeal, Love Only Was My Call, And If I Lose Thy Love, I Lose My All.

Get Your Enemy To Read Your Works In Order To Mend Them, For Your Friend Is So Much Your Second Self That He Will Judge Too Like You.

See The Wild Waste Of All-devouring Years! How Rome Her Own Sad Sepulchre Appears, With Nodding Arches, Broken Temples Spread! The Very Tombs Now Vanish'd Like Their Dead!