Never Was Patriot Yet, But Was A

If We From Wealth To Poverty Descend, Want Gives To Know The Flatterer From The Friend.

He Trudged Along Unknowing What He Sought, And Whistled As He Went, For Want Of Thought.

I'm A Little Wounded, But I Am Not Slain; I Will Lay Me Down To Bleed A While. Then I'll Rise And Fight Again.

Imagination In A Poet Is A Faculty So Wild And Lawless That, Like A High Ranging Spaniel, It Must Have Clogs Tied To It, Lest It Outrun The Judgment. The Great Easiness Of Blank Verse Renders The Poet Too Luxuriant. He Is Tempted To Say Many Things Which Might Better Be Omitted, Or, At Least Shut Up In Fewer Words.

I Learn To Pity Woes So Like My Own.