Fool That I Was, Upon My Eagle's

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.

Pity Melts The Mind To Love.

We Must Beat The Iron While It Is Hot, But We May Polish It At Leisure.

So Softly Death Succeeded Life In Her, She Did But Dream Of Heaven, And She Was There.

For Mysterious Things Of Faith, Rely On The Proponent, Heaven's Authority.