But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
Th' applause of listening senates to command, / The threats of pain and ruin to despise,/ To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, / And read their history in a nation's eyes.
The language of the age is never the language of poetry, except among the French, whose verse, where the thought or image does not support it, differs in nothing from prose.
I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
Sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.