Restless At Home, And Ever Prone To

What Judgment I Had Increases Rather Than Diminishes; And Thoughts, Such As They Are, Come Crowding In So Fast Upon Me, That My Only Difficulty Is To Choose Or Reject; To Run Them Into Verse Or To Give Them The Other Harmony Of Prose.

Men's Virtues I Have Commended As Freely As I Have Taxed Their Crimes.

Virgil, Above All Poets, Had A Stock Which I May Call Almost Inexhaustible, Of Figurative, Elegant, And Sounding Words.

The Fates But Only Spin The Coarser Clue; The Finest Of The Wool Is Left For You.

Thoughts Cannot Form Themselves In Words So Horrid As Can Express My Guilt.