Genius Is Nothing More Than Inflamed Enthusiasm.

Greatly His Foes He Dreads, But More His Friends; He Hurts Me Most Who Lavishly Commends.

Childhood, Who Like An April Morn Appears, Sunshine And Rain, Hopes Clouded O'er With Fears.

Truth! Why Shall Every Wretch Of Letters Dare To Speak Truth Against His Betters! Let Ragged Virtue Stand Aloof, Nor Mutter Accents Of Reproof; Let Ragged Wit A Mute Become, When Wealth And Power Would Have Her Dumb.

All Hunt For Fame, But Most Mistake The Way.

Though By Whim, Envy, Or Resentment Led, They Damn Those Authors Whom They Never Read.