Truth Shines The Brighter, Clad In Verse.

Fondly We Think We Honor Merit Then, When We But Praise Ourselves In Other Men.

Sleep And Death, Two Twins Of Winged Race, Of Matchless Swiftness, But Of Silent Pace.

A Work Of Art That Contains Theories Is Like An Object On Which The Price Tag Has Been Left.

Some Have At First For Wits, Then Poets Passed, Turned Critics Next, And Proved Plain Fools At Last.

With Sharpen'd Sight Pale Antiquaries Pore, Th' Inscription Value, But The Rust Adore. This The Blue Varnish, That The Green Endears; The Sacred Rust Of Twice Ten Hundred Years.