The power of daring anything their fancy suggest, as always been conceded to the painter and the poet.

Posterity, thinned by the crime of its ancestors, shall hear of those battles.

Though your threshing floor grind a hundred thousand bushels of corn, not for that reason will your stomach hold more than mine.

The man is either crazy or he is a poet.

And Tragedy should blush as much to stoop To the low mimic follies of a farce, As a grave matron would to dance with girls.

Leuconoe, close the book of fate, For troubles are in store, . . . . Live today, tomorrow is not.

Alas! the fleeting years, how they roll on!