Things Are In The Saddle. And Ride

There Is No Den In The Wide World To Hide A Rogue.

The Genius Of The Platonists, Is Intoxicating To The Student, Yet How Few Particulars Of It Can I Detach From All Their Books.

Venus, When Her Son Was Lost, Cried Him Up And Down The Coast, In Hamlets, Palaces, And Parks, And Told The Truant By His Marks,- Golden Curls, And Quiver, And Bow.

No Hope So Bright But Is The Beginning Of Its Own Fulfilment.

All The Devils Respect Virtue.