Mutual Forgiveness Of Each Vice.

Why Stand We Here Trembling Around, Calling On God For Help, And Not Ourselves, In Whom God Dwells?

But To Go To School In A Summer Morn, O! It Drives All Joy Away; Under A Cruel Eye Outworn, The Little Ones Spend The Day In Sighing And Dismay.

Works Of Art Can Only Be Produc'd In Perfection Where The Man Is Either In Affluence Or Is Above The Care Of It.

Heaven Is In A Grain Of Sand.

Then My Verse I Dishonor, My Pictures Despise, My Person Degrade And My Temper Chastise; And The Pen Is My Terror, The Pencil My Shame; And My Talents I Bury, And Dead Is My Fame.