Authors Are Partial To Their

Religion Blushing, Veils Her Sacred Fires, And Unawares Morality Expires.

Whether The Charmer Sinner It, Or Saint It, If Folly Grow Romantic, I Must Paint It.

Truth Needs Not Flowers Of Speech.

Expression Is The Dress Of Thought, And Still Appears More Decent As More Suitable; A Vile Conceit In Pompous Words Express'd, Is Like A Clown In Regal Purple Dress'd.

Where Beams Of Imagination Play, The Memory's Soft Figures Melt Away.