Poetry Is A Kind Of Ingenious Nonsense

Shall We Keep Our Hands In Our Bosom, Or Stretch Ourselves On Our Beds Of Laziness, While All The World About Us Is Hard At Work, In Pursuing The Designs Of Its Creation?

It Consisteth In One Knows Not What, And Springeth Up One Can Hardly Tell How. Its Ways Are Unaccountable And Inexplicable, Being Answerable To The Numberless Rovings Of Fancy And Windings Of Language.

He Who Loveth A Book Will Never Want A Faithful Friend, A Wholesome Counsellor, A Cheerful Companion, Or An Effectual Comforter.

Upright Simplicity Is The Deepest Wisdom, And Perverse Craft The Merest Shallowness.

Virtue Is Not A Mushroom, That Springeth Up Of Itself In One Night When We Are Asleep, Or Regard It Not; But A Delicate Plant, That Groweth Slowly And Tenderly, Needing Much Pains To Cultivate It, Much Care To Guard It, Much Time To Mature It, In Our Untoward Soil, In This World's Unkindly Weather.