From the moment one sets up for an author, one must be treated as ceremoniously, that is as unfaithfully, "as a king's favorite or a king.

For thee I dim these eye and stuff this head With all such reading as was never read.

If I am right, Thy grace impart Still in the right to stay; If I am wrong, O, teach my heart To find that better way!

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Thus unlamented let me die, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.

Jarring interests of themselves create the according music of a well-mixed state.

Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd, Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd. Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where mixed with Gods, his lov'd idea lies: O write it not, my hand - the name appears Already written - wash it out, my tears! In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays, Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeyes.

Such as are still observing upon others are like those who are always abroad at other men's houses, reforming everything there while their own runs to ruin.