Her Wit Was More Than Man, Her

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

Pains Of Love Be Sweeter Far Than All Other Pleasures Are.

An Horrible Stillness First Invades Our Ear, And In That Silence We The Tempest Fear.

As Poetry Is The Harmony Of Words, So Music Is That Of Notes.

He Was The Man Who Of All Modern, And Perhaps Ancient Poets, Had The Largest And Most Comprehensive Soul. . . . He Was Naturally Learn'd; He Needed Not The Spectacles Of Books To Read Nature; He Looked Inwards, And Found Her There. . . . He Is Many Times Flat, Insipid; His Comic Wit Degenerating In To Clenches, His Serious Swelling Into Bombast. But He Is Always Great, When Some Occasion Is Presented To Him.