All Authors To Their Own Defects Are

Men Met Each Other With Erected Look, The Steps Were Higher That They Took; Friends To Congratulate Their Friends Made Haste, And Long Inveterate Foes Saluted As They Pass'd.

I Feel My Sinews Slackened With The Fright, And A Cold Sweat Trills Down All Over My Limbs, As If I Were Dissolving Into Water.

So Poetry, Which Is In Oxford Made An Art, In London Only Is A Trade.

Resolved To Ruin Or To Rule The State.

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