What Is It But A Map Of

Made Poetry A Mere Mechanic Art.

Forced From Home, And All Its Pleasures, Afric Coast I Left Forlorn; To Increase A Stranger's Treasures, O The Raging Billows Borne. Men From England Bought And Sold Me, Paid My Price In Paltry Gold; But, Though Theirs They Have Enroll'd Me, Minds Are Never To Be Sold.

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

They Best Can Judge A Poet's Worth, Who Oft Themselves Have Known The Pangs Of A Poetic Birth By Labours Of Their Own.

Riches Have Wings, And Grandeur Is A Dream.