I will not quarrel with a slight mistake, Such as our nature's frailty may excuse.

You gain your point if your industrious art can make unusual words easy.

I will not quarrel with a slight mistake, Such as our nature's frailty may excuse.

Grief dejects and wrings the tortured soul.

Sound judgment is the ground of writing well.

The last loud trumpet's wondrous sound, Shall thro' the rending tombs rebound, And wake the nations under ground.

The men, who labour and digest things most, Will be much apter to despond than boast; For if your author be profoundly good, 'Twill cost you dear before he's understood.