Death In Itself Is Nothing; But We

Every Language Is So Full Of Its Own Proprieties That What Is Beautiful In One Is Often Barbarous, Nay, Sometimes Nonsense, In Another.

And He, Who Servilely Creeps After Sense, Is Safe, But Ne'er Will Reach An Excellence.

To Breed Up The Son To Common Sense Is Evermore The Parent's Least Expense.

Fortune, That With Malicious Joydoes Man Her Slave Oppress,proud Of Her Office To Destroy,is Seldom Pleasd To Bless.

Imagination In A Poet Is A Faculty So Wild And Lawless That, Like A High Ranging Spaniel, It Must Have Clogs Tied To It, Lest It Outrun The Judgment. The Great Easiness Of Blank Verse Renders The Poet Too Luxuriant. He Is Tempted To Say Many Things Which Might Better Be Omitted, Or, At Least Shut Up In Fewer Words.