Made poetry a mere mechanic art.

How readily we wish time spent revoked, that we might try the ground again where once--through inexperience, as we now perceive--we missed that happiness we might have found!

Folly ends where genuine hope begins.

An epigram is but a feeble thing - With straw in tail, stuck there by way of sting.

Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.

But slaves that once conceive the glowing thought Of freedom, in that hope itself possess All that the contest calls for; spirit, strength, The scorn of danger, and united hearts, The surest presage of the good they seek.

The parson knows enough who knows a Duke.