Genius Must Be Born, And

Light Sufferings Give Us Leisure To Complain.

Present Joys Are More To Flesh And Blood Than A Dull Prospect Of A Distant Good.

To Die Is Landing On Some Distant Shore.

If Thou Dost Still Retain The Same Ill Habits, The Same Follies, Too, Still Thou Art Bound To Vice, And Still A Slave.

Rhyme Is The Rock On Which Thou Art To Wreck.