Music Is Inarticulate Poesy.

All Habits Gather By Unseen Degrees.

My Love's A Noble Madness.

It Is Sufficient To Say, According To The Proverb, That Here Is God's Plenty.

What I Have Left Is From My Native Spring; I've Still A Heart That Swells, In Scorn Of Fate, And Lifts Me To My Banks.

To Take Up Half On Trust, And Half To Try, Name It Not Faith But Bungling Bigotry.