All Habits Gather By Unseen Degrees.

Ever A Glutton, At Another's Cost, But In Whose Kitchen Dwells Perpetual Frost.

As Poetry Is The Harmony Of Words, So Music Is That Of Notes.

Chaucer Followed Nature Everywhere, But Was Never So Bold To Go Beyond Her.

He Who Would Pry Behind The Scenes Oft Sees A Counterfeit.

Moderate Sorrow Fits Vulgar Love, And For A Vulgar Man: But I Have Lov'd With Such Transcendent Passion, I Soar'd, At First, Quite Out Of Reason's View, And Now Am Lost Above It.