Wrong Is But Falsehood Put

There Is A Vast Deal Of Vital Air In Loving Words.

Many Laws As Certainly Make Men Bad, As Bad Men Make Many Laws.

It Often Comes Into My Head That We May Dream When We Are Dead, But I Am Far From Sure We Do. O That It Were So! Then My Rest Would Be Indeed Among The Blest; I Should For Ever Dream Of You.

True Wit, To Every Man, Is That Which Falls On Another.

Something Of The Severe Hath Always Been Appertaining To Order And To Grace; And The Beauty That Is Not Too Liberal Is Sought The Most Ardently, And Loved The Longest.