No More Was Seen The Human Form

Now Warm In Love, Now With'ring In My Bloom Lost In A Convent's Solitary Gloom!

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

Our Grandsire, Adam, Ere Of Eve Possesst, Alone, And E'en In Paradise Unblest, With Mournful Looks The Blissful Scenes Survey'd, And Wander'd In The Solitary Shade. The Maker Say, Took Pity, And Bestow'd Woman, The Last, The Best Reserv'd Of God.

Music Resembles Poetry, In Each Are Nameless Graces Which No Methods Teach, And Which A Master Hand Alone Can Reach.

To Observations Which Ourselves We Make, We Grow More Partial For Th' Observer's Sake.