So Poetry, Which Is In Oxford Made

The Unhappy Man, Who Once Has Trail'd A Pen, Lives Not To Please Himself, But Other Men; Is Always Drudging, Wastes His Life And Blood, Yet Only Eats And Drinks What You Think Good.

Joy Rul'd The Day, And Love The Night.

For Every Inch That Is Not Fool, Is Rogue.

Chaucer Followed Nature Everywhere, But Was Never So Bold To Go Beyond Her.

Those Who Write Ill, And They Who Ne'er Durst Write, Turn Critics Out Of Mere Revenge And Spite.