Among the writers of all ages, some deserve fame, and have it; others neither have nor deserve it; some have it, not deserving it; others, though deserving it, yet totally miss it, or have it not equal to their deserts.

Methought I saw my late espoused saint.

The work under our labour grows, Luxurious by restraint.

Heav'nly love shall outdoo Hellish hate

He who destroys a good book kills reason itself.

His rod revers'd, And backward mutters of dissevering power.

This is servitude, To serve the unwise.