He Who Trusts A Secret To His

Railing In Other Men May Be A Crime, But Ought To Pass For Mere Instinct In Him: Instinct He Follows And No Further Knows, For To Write Verse With Him Is To Transprose.

None Would Live Past Years Again, Yet All Hope Pleasure In What Yet Remain; And, From The Dregs Of Life, Think To Receive, What The First Sprightly Running Could Not Give.

Plots, True Or False, Are Necessary Things, To Raise Up Commonwealths And Ruin Kings.

A Coward Is The Kindest Animal; 'tis The Most Forgiving Creature In A Fight.

My Right Eye Itches, Some Good Luck Is Near.