Caution Comes Too Late When We Are

Call It Not Vain: They Do Not Err Who Say That When The Poet Dies Mute Nature Mourns Her Worshipper, And Celebrates His Obsequies.

In Listening Mood She Seemed To Stand, The Guardian Naiad Of The Strand.

One Or Two Of These Scoundrel Statesmen Should Be Shot Once A-year, Just To Keep The Others On Their Good Behavior.

Fortune May Raise Up Or Abuse The Ordinary Mortal, But The Sage And The Soldier Should Have Minds Beyond Her Control.

The Lover's Pleasure, Like That Of The Hunter, Is In The Chase, And The Brightest Beauty Loses Half Its Merit, As The Flower Its Perfume, When The Willing Hand Can Reach It Too Easily. There Must Be Doubt; There Must Be Difficulty And Danger.