Poetry Cannot Be Translation

Yet Reason Frowns In War's Unequal Game, Where Wasted Nations Raise A Single Name; And Mortgag'd States Their Grandsire's Wreaths Regret, From Age To Age In Everlasting Debt; Wreaths Which At Last The Dear-bought Right Convey To Rust On Medals, Or On Stones Decay.

No Man Can Have Much Kindness For Him By Whom He Does Not Believe Himself Esteemed, And Nothing So Evidently Proves Esteem As Imitation.

The Feeling Of Friendship Is Like That Of Being Comfortably Filled With Roast Beef; Love, Like Being Enlivened With Champagne.

I Do Not Wonder That, Where The Monastick Life Is Permitted, Every Order Finds Votaries, And Every Monastery Inhabitants. Men Will Submit To Any Rule, By Which They May Be Exempted From The Tyranny Of Caprice And Of Chance. They Are Glad To Supply By External Authority Their Own Want Of Constancy And Resolution, And Court The Government Of Others, When Long Experience Has Convinced Them Of Their Own Inability To Govern Themselves.

Differences, We Know, Are Never So Effectually Laid Asleep As By Some Common Calamity; An Enemy Unites All To Whom He Threatens Danger.