Is Death The Last Sleep? No, It

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

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.

November's Sky Is Chill And Drear, November's Leaf Is Red And Sear.

The Man Who Is Deserving The Name Is The One Whose Thoughts And Exertions Are For Others Rather Than For Himself.

A Fool's Wild Speech Confounds The Wise.