Genius is nothing more than inflamed enthusiasm.
On the four aces doom'd to roll.
Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
When fiction rises pleasing to the eye, men will believe, because they love the lie; but truth herself, if clouded with a frown, must have some solemn proof to pass her down.
Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford; and reputation bleeds in every word.
With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.