Ruin Seize Thee, Ruthless King! Confusion On

The Attic Warbler Pours Her Throat, Responsive To The Cuckoo's Note, The Untaught Harmony Of Spring.

Where Ignorance Is Bliss, 'tis Folly To Be Wise.

Not All That Tempts Your Wandering Eyes And Heedless Hearts, Is Lawful Prize; Nor All That Glisters Gold.

The Language Of The Age Is Never The Language Of Poetry, Except Among The French, Whose Verse, Where The Thought Or Image Does Not Support It, Differs In Nothing From Prose.

A Fav'rite Has No Friend!