The Trumpet's Loud Clangor Excites

But Dying Is A Pleasure / When Living Is A Pain.

Honor Is But An Empty Bubble.

Prodigious Actions May As Well Be Done, By Weaver's Issue, As The Prince's Son.

At Home The Hateful Names Of Parties Cease, And Factious Souls Are Wearied Into Peace.

Imagining Is In Itself The Very Height And Life Of Poetry, Which, By A Kind Of Enthusiasm Or Extraordinary Emotion Of The Soul, Makes It Seem To Us That We Behold Those Things Which The Poet Paints.