I Cannot Tell How The Truth May

Whose Lenient Sorrows Find Relief, Whose Joys Are Chastened By Their Grief.

The Summer Dawn's Reflected Hue To Purple Changed Lock Katrine Blue, Mildly And Soft The Western Breeze Just Kiss'd The Lake, Just Stirr'd The Trees, And The Pleased Lake, Like Maiden Coy, Trembled But Dimpled Not For Joy.

If A Faultless Poem Could Be Produced, I Am Satisfied It Would Tire The Critics Themselves; And Annoy The Whole Reading World With The Spleen.

Great Talent Has Always A Little Madness Mixed Up With It.

War Is The Only Game In Which Both Sides Lose.