Where there are many beauties in a poem I shall not cavil at a few faults proceeding either from negligence or from the imperfection of our nature.

Painters and poets have equal license in regard to everything.

In labouring to be brief, I become obscure.

What impropriety or limit can there be in our grief for a man so beloved?.

By the favour of the heavens

I am doubting what to do.

From the egg to the apple.