My Voice Is Still For War.

Mysterious Love, Uncertain Treasure, Hast Thou More Of Pain Or Pleasure! Endless Torments Dwell About Thee: Yet Who Would Live, And Live Without Thee!

The Moral Perfections Of The Deity, The More Attentively, We Consider, The More Perfectly Still Shall We Know Them.

Men Who Cherish For Women The Highest Respect Are Seldom Popular With Them.

Nothing Is More Amiable Than True Modesty, And Nothing More Contemptible Than The False. The One Guards Virtue, The Other Betrays It.

The English Writers Of Tragedy Are Possessed With A Notion, That When They Represent A Virtuous Or Innocent Person In Distress, They Ought Not To Leave Him Till They Have Delivered Him Out Of His Troubles, Or Made Him Triumph Over His Enemies.