For When Was Public Virtue To Be

An Epigram Is But A Feeble Thing - With Straw In Tail, Stuck There By Way Of Sting.

Slaves Cannot Breathe In England; If Their Lungs Receive Our Air, That Moment They Are Free; They Touch Our Country, And Their Shackles Fall.

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

In A Fleshly Tomb, I Am Buried Above Ground.

Forgot The Blush That Virgin Fears Impart To Modest Cheeks, And Borrowed One From Art.