What Passion Cannot Music Raise And Quell!

Let Those Find Fault Whose Wit's So Very Small, They've Need To Show That They Can Think At All; Errors, Like Straws, Upon The Surface Flow; He Who Would Search For Pearls, Must Dive Below. Fops May Have Leave To Level All They Can; As Pigmies Would Be Glad To Lop A Man. Half-wits Are Fleas; So Little And So Light, We Scarce Could Know They Live, But That They Bite.

Freedom Which In No Other Land Will Thrive, Freedom An English Subject's Sole Prerogative.

Time Glides With Undiscover'd Haste; The Future But A Length Behind The Past.

And, Dying, Bless The Hand That Gave The Blow.

Learn To Write Well, Or Not To Write At All.