The Vain Poet Is Of

If There Were No Falsehood In The World, There Would Be No Doubt, If There Were No Doubt, There Would Be No Inquiry; If No Inquiry, No Wisdom, No Knowledge, No Genius; And Fancy Herself Would Lie Muffled Up In Her Robe, Inactive, Pale, And Bloated.

Vast Objects Of Remote Altitude Must Be Looked At A Long While Before They Are Ascertained. Ages Are The Telescope Tubes That Must Be Lengthened Out For Shakespeare; And Generations Of Men Serve But A Single Witness To His Claims.

Fancy Is Imagination In Her Youth And Adolescence. Fancy Is Always Excursive; Imagination, Not Seldom, Is Sedate.

There Is A Gravity Which Is Not Austere Nor Captious, Which Belongs Not To Melancholy Nor Dwells In Contraction Of Heart: But Arises From Tenderness And Hangs Upon Reflection.

The Sweetest Souls, Like The Sweetest Flowers, Soon Canker In Cities, And No Purity Is Rarer There Than The Purity Of Delight.