That Prose Is A Verse, And Verse

So The Struck Eagle, Stretch'd Upon The Plain, No More Through Rolling Clouds To Soar Again, View'd His Own Feather On The Fatal Dart, And Wing'd The Shaft That Quiver'd In His Heart.

They Truly Mourn, That Mourn Without A Witness.

There Is Music In All Things, If Men Had Ears.

Dead Scandals Form Good Subjects For Dissection.

Though I Love My Country, I Do Not Love My Countrymen.