Thou Tyrant, Tyrant Jealousy, Thou Tyrant Of

Railing In Other Men May Be A Crime, But Ought To Pass For Mere Instinct In Him: Instinct He Follows And No Further Knows, For To Write Verse With Him Is To Transprose.

Music Is Inarticulate Poesy.

Ah, How Sweet It Is To Love! Ah, How Gay Is Young Desire! And What Pleasing Pains We Prove When We First Approach Love's Fire!

It Is Almost Impossible To Translate Verbally And Well At The Same Time; For The Latin (a Most Severe And Compendious Language) Often Expresses That In One Word Which Either The Barbarity Or The Narrowness Of Modern Tongues Cannot Supply In More. ...but Since Every Language Is So Full Of Its Own Proprieties That What Is Beautiful In One Is Often Barbarous, Nay, Sometimes Nonsense, In Another, It Would Be Unreasonable To Limit A Translator To The Narrow Compass Of His Author's Words; It Is Enough If He Choose Out Some Expression Which Does Not Vitiate The Sense.

She Feared No Danger, For She Knew No Sin.