Love Is A Passion Which Kindles Honor

Riches Cannot Rescue From The Grave, Which Claims Alike The Monarch And The Slave.

And Plenty Makes Us Poor.

The Fates But Only Spin The Coarser Clue; The Finest Of The Wool Is Left For You.

How Happy The Lover, How Easy His Chain, How Pleasing His Pain, How Sweet To Discover He Sighs Not In Vain.

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.