He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true poem.
Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.
Good, the more communicated, more abundant grows.
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
He 's gone, and who knows how he may report Thy words by adding fuel to the flame?
Let her (Truth) and Falsehood grapple; who ever knew Truth put to the worse in a free and open encounter?