Laughter Ispleasant, Butthe Exertion Istoomuchfor

But Still My Fancy Wanders Free Through That Which Might Have Been.

My Quarrel With Him Is, That His Works Contain Nothing Worth Quoting; And A Book That Furnishes No Quotations, Is Me Judice, No Book,—it Is A Plaything.

The Truth, I Am Convinced, Is That There Is No Longer A Poetical Audience Among The Higher Class Of Minds, That Moral, Political, And Physical Science Have Entirely Withdrawn From Poetry The Attention Of All Whose Attention Is Worth Having; And That The Poetical Reading Public Being Composed Of The Mere Dregs Of The Intellectual Community, The Most Sufficing Passport To Their Favour Must Rest On The Mixture Of A Little Easily-intelligible Portion Of Mawkish Sentiment With An Absolute Negation Of Reason And Knowledge.

Sir, I Have Quarrelled With My Wife; And A Man Who Has Quarrelled With His Wife Is Absolved From All Duty To His Country.

Clouds On Clouds, In Volumes Driven, Curtain Round The Vault Of Heaven.