A Heretic, My Dear Sir, Is A

A Glory Gilds The Sacred Page, Majestic Like The Sun, It Gives A Light To Every Age, It Gives, But Borrows None.

There Is A Pleasure In Poetic Pains / Which Only Poets Know.

Twere Better To Be Born A Stone Of Ruder Shape, And Feeling None, Than With A Tenderness Like Mine And Sensibilities So Fine! Ah, Hapless Wretch! Condemn'd To Dwell Forever In My Native Shell, Ordained To Move When Others Please, Not For My Own Content Or Ease; But Toss'd And Buffeted About, Now In The Water And Now Out.

What Is It But A Map Of Busy Life, Its Fluctuations, And Its Vast Concerns?

And The Tear That Is Wiped With A Little Address, May Be Follow'd Perhaps By A Smile.