In the infancy of society every author is necessarily a poet
His fine wit Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it.
I wish no living thing to suffer pain.
Forget the dead, the past? O yet there are ghosts that may take revenge for it, memories that make the heart a tomb, regrets which gild thro’ the spirit’s gloom, and with ghastly whispers tell that joy, once lost, is pain.
Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.
O weep for Adonis - He is dead." "Peace. He is not dead he doth not sleep - he hath wakened from the dream of life