To A Poet Nothing Can Be Useless.

Terrestrial Happiness Is Of Short Duration. The Brightness Of The Flame Is Wasting Its Fuel; The Fragrant Flower Is Passing Away In Its Own Odors.

Revenge Is An Act Of Passion; Vengeance Of Justice. Injuries Are Revenged; Crimes Are Avenged.

Nay, Madam, When You Are Declaiming, Declaim; And When You Are Calculating, Calculate.

So Different Are The Colors Of Life, As We Look Forward To The Future, Or Backward To The Past; And So Different The Opinions And Sentiments Which This Contrariety Of Appearance Naturally Produces, That The Conversation Of The Old And Young Ends Generally With Contempt Or Pity On Either Side.

There Lurks, Perhaps, In Every Human Heart A Desire Of Distinction, Which Inclines Every Man First To Hope, And Then To Believe, That Nature Has Given Him Something Peculiar To Himself.