He That Has Seen Both

There Is A Mixture Of Evil In Everything We Do; Indulgence Encourages Us To Encroach, While We Crabbe Exercise The Rights Of Children, We Become Childish.

My Soul Is Sick With Every Day's Report Of Wrong And Outrage With Which Earth Is Filled.

Remorse, The Fatal Egg That Pleasure Laid.

Grief Is Itself A Medicine.

When Scandal Has New-minted An Old Lie, Or Tax'd Invention For A Fresh Supply, 'tis Call'd A Satire, And The World Appears Gathering Around It With Erected Ears; A Thousand Names Are Toss'd Into The Crowd, Some Whisper'd Softly, And Some Twang'd Aloud, Just As The Sapience Of An Author's Brain, Suggests It Safe Or Dangerous To Be Plain.