A king may be a tool, a thing of straw; but if he serves to frighten our enemies, and secure our property, it is well enough; a scarecrow is a thing of straw, but it protects the corn.

Beauty draws us with a single hair.

Where beams of imagination play, the memory's soft figures melt away.

Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, But are not critics to their judgment, too?

For what I have publish'd, I can only hope to be pardon'd; but for what I have burned, I deserve to be prais'd.

Pretty conceptions, fine metaphors, glittering expressions, and something of a neat cast of verse are properly the dress, gems, or loose ornaments of poetry.

Now warm in love, now with'ring in my bloom Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!