Words In Prose Ought To Express The

No Man Was Ever Yet A Great Poet, Without Being At The Same Time A Profound Philosopher. For Poetry Is The Blossom And The Fragrance Of All Human Knowledge, Human Thoughts, Human Passions, Emotions, Language.

As Long As There Are Readers To Be Delighted With Calumny, There Will Be Found Reviewers To Calumniate.

Motives By Excess Reverse Their Very Nature And Instead Of Exciting, Stun And Stupefy The Mind.

He Knows Well The Evening Star, And Once When He Awoke, In A Most Distressful Mood (some Inward Pain Had Made Up That Strange Thing, An Infant's Dream), I Hurried With Him To Our Orchard Plot, And He Beheld The Moon, And Hushed At Once. Suspends His Sobs And Laughs Most Silently. While His Fair Eyes, That Swam With Undropped Tears, Did Glitter In The Yellow Moonbeam.

How Many Of Our Virtues Originate In The Fear Of Death & That While We Flatter Ourselves That We Are Melting In Christian Sensibility Over The Sorrows Of Our Human Brethren And Sisteren, We Are In Fact, Tho' Perhaps Unconsciously, Moved At The Prospect Of Our Own End For Who Sincerely Pities Sea-sickness, Toothache, Or A Fit Of The Gout In A Lusty Good-liver Of 50?