Born originals, how comes it to pass that we die copies? That meddling ape imitation, as soon as we come to years of indiscretion, (so let me speak,) snatches the pen, and blots out nature's mark of separation, cancels her kind intention, destroys all mental individuality. The lettered world no longer consists of singulars: it is a medley, a mass; and a hundred books, at bottom, are but one.

The man that blushes is not quite a brute.

Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile.

Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow.

To frown at pleasure, and to smile in pain.

They build too low who build beneath the skies.

Beautiful as sweet, And young as beautiful, and soft as young, And gay as soft, and innocent as gay!