And Love's The Noblest Frailty Of The

Parting Is Worse Than Death; It Is Death Of Love!

The Sooner You Treat Your Son As A Man, The Sooner He Will Be One.

So Poetry, Which Is In Oxford Made An Art, In London Only Is A Trade.

There Is An Inimitable Grace In Virgil's Words, And In Them Principally Consists That Beauty Which Gives So Inexpressible A Pleasure To Him Who Best Understands Their Force. This Diction Of His, I Must Once Again Say, Is Never To Be Copied; And Since It Cannot, He Will Appear But Lame In The Best Translation.

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.