To Copy Faults Is Want Of Sense.

Nor Waste Their Sweetness In The Desert Air.

Greatly His Foes He Dreads, But More His Friends; He Hurts Me Most Who Lavishly Commends.

Childhood, Who Like An April Morn Appears, Sunshine And Rain, Hopes Clouded O'er With Fears.

Genius Is Of No Country.

Who Shall Dispute What The Reviewers Say? Their Word's Sufficient; And To Ask A Reason, In Such A State As Theirs, Is Downright Treason.