That prose is a verse, and verse is a prose; convincing all, by demonstrating plain – poetic souls delight in prose insane

Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared.

Sometimes we are less unhappy in being deceived by those we love, than in being undeceived by them.

Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!

Critics are already made.

Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

And what is writ is writ - / Would it were worthier!