Hell Itself Must Yield To Industry.

A New Disease? I Know Not, New Or Old, But It May Well Be Called Poor Mortals Plague For, Like A Pestilence, It Doth Infect The Houses Of The Brain Till Not A Thought, Or Motion, In The Mind, Be Free From The Black Poison Of Suspect.

Good Men Are The Stars, The Planets Of The Ages Wherein They Live, And Illustrate The Times.

Still To Be Neat, Still To Be Drest, As You Were Going To A Feast, Still To Be Powder'd, All Perfum'd. Lady, It Is To Be Presumed, Though Art's Hid Causes Are Not Found, All Is Not Sweet, All Is Not Sound.

I Would Rather Have A Plain Down-right Wisdom Than A Foolish And Affected Eloquence.

The Poet Is The Nearest Borderer Upon The Orator.