All Looks Yellow To A Jaundiced Eye.

Nature Made Every Fop To Plague His Brother, Just As One Beauty Mortifies Another.

Men Would Be Angels, Angels Would Be Gods.

How Do We Know That We Have A Right To Kill Creatures That We Are So Little Above, As Dogs, For Our Curiosity Or Even For Some Use To Us?

See! From The Brake The Whirring Pheasant Springs, And Mounts Exulting On Triumphant Wings; Short Is His Joy! He Feels The Fiery Wound, Flutters In Blood, And Panting Beats The Ground.

'tis Not A Lip, Or Eye, We Beauty Call, But The Joint Force And Full Result Of All.