To Draw True Beauty Shows A Master's

Jealousy Is The Jaundice Of The Soul.

Restless At Home, And Ever Prone To Range.

The Thought Of Being Nothing After Death Is A Burden Insupportable To A Virtuous Man.

They First Condemn That First Advised The Ill.

While I Am Compassed Round With Mirth, My Soul Lies Hid In Shades Of Grief, Whence, Like The Bird Of Night, With Half-shut Eyes, She Peeps, And Sickens At The Sight Of Day.