Pity swells the tide of love.

Pity swells the tide of love.

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.

Midway from Nothing to the Deity!

Poor in abundance, famish'd at a feast.

Britannia's shame! There took her gloomy flight, On wing impetuous, a black sullen soul . Less base the fear of death than fear of life. O Britain! infamous for suicide.

What is revenge but courage to call in our honor's debts, and wisdom to convert others' self-love into our own protection?