Remorse, The Fatal Egg That Pleasure Laid.

I Will Venture To Assert, That A Just Translation Of Any Ancient Poet In Rhyme Is Impossible. No Human Ingenuity Can Be Equal To The Task Of Closing Every Couplet With Sounds Homotonous, Expressing At The Same Time The Full Sense, And Only The Full Sense Of His Original.

An Epigram Is But A Feeble Thing - With Straw In Tail, Stuck There By Way Of Sting.

Far Happier Are The Dead Methinks Than They Who Look For Death And Fear It Every Day.

Detested Sport, That Owes Its Pleasures To Another's Pain.

No Traveler E'er Reached That Blest Abode Who Found Not Thorns And Briers In His Road.