Sir, It Is Wrong To Stir Up

Invention Is Almost The Only Literary Labour Which Blindness Cannot Obstruct.

He Who Has So Little Knowledge Of Human Nature As To Seek Happiness By Changing Anything But His Own Disposition Will Waste His Life In Fruitless Efforts.

Wheresoe'er I Turn My View, All Is Strange, Yet Nothing New: Endless Labor All Along, Endless Labor To Be Wrong: Phrase That Time Has Flung Away; Uncouth Words In Disarray, Trick'd In Antique Ruff And Bonnet, Ode, And Elegy, And Sonnet.

Much Mischief Is Done In The World With Very Little Interest Or Design.

But Grant, The Virtues Of A Temp'rate Prime Bless With An Age Exempt From Scorn Or Crime; An Age That Melts With Unperceived Decay, And Glides In Modest Innocence Away