He mourns the dead who lives as they desire.

We are all born originals - why is it so many of us die copies?

The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, Reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart.

However smothered under former negligence, or scattered through the dull, dark mass of common thoughts - let thy genius rise as the sun from chaos.

Midway from Nothing to the Deity!

Where, where for shelter shall the guilty fly, When consternation turns the good man pale?

Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.