He who destroys a good book kills reason itself.

That practis'd falsehood under saintly shew, Deep malice to conceal, couch'd with revenge.

Such bickerings to recount, met often in these our writers, what more worth is it than to chronicle the wars of kites or crows flocking and fighting in the air?

A good principle not rightly understood may prove as hurtful as a bad.

Among unequals what society Can sort, what harmony, or true delight?

The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.

Ere the blabbing eastern scout, The nice morn, on th' Indian steep From her cabin'd loop-hole peep.