I Have A Soul That Like An

Our Souls Sit Close And Silently Within, And Their Own Web From Their Own Entrails Spin; And When Eyes Meet Far Off, Our Sense Is Such, That, Spider-like, We Feel The Tenderest Touch.

Uncertain Whose The Narrowest Span,--the Clown Unread, Or Half-read Gentleman.

Virtue Without Success Is A Fair Picture Shown By An Ill Light; But Lucky Men Are Favorites Of Heaven; All Own The Chief, When Fortune Owns The Cause.

Virgil And Horace [were] The Severest Writers Of The Severest Age.

So Over Violent, Or Over Civil That Every Man With Him Was God Or Devil.