Ill Writers Are Usually The Sharpest Censors.

To Tame The Proud, The Fetter'd Slave To Free, These Are Imperial Arts.

Such Subtle Covenants Shall Be Made,till Peace It Self Is War In Masquerade.

Who Climbs The Grammar-tree, Distinctly Knows Where Noun, And Verb, And Participle Grows.

Happy The Man, And Happy He Alone, He Who Can Call Today His Own; He Who, Secure Within, Can Say, Tomorrow Do Thy Worst, For I Have Lived Today.

So The False Spider, When Her Nets Are Spread, Deep Ambushed In Her Silent Den Does Lie.