The Poet Is The Nearest Borderer Upon

Tell Troth And Shame The Devil.

When A Virtuous Man Is Raised, It Brings Gladness To His Friends, Grief To His Enemies, And Glory To His Posterity.

Whosoever Loves Not Picture Is Injurious To Truth, And All The Wisdom Of Poetry. Picture Is The Invention Of Heaven, The Most Ancient And Most Akin To Nature. It Is Itself A Silent Work, And Always One And The Same Habit.

Still May Syllables Jar With Time, Still May Reason War With Rhyme, Resting Never!

Still To Be Neat, Still To Be Drest, As You Were Going To A Feast, Still To Be Powder'd, All Perfum'd. Lady, It Is To Be Presumed, Though Art's Hid Causes Are Not Found, All Is Not Sweet, All Is Not Sound.