There Is No Eloquence Which Does Not

Why Cannot We Be Delighted With An Author, And Even Feel A Predilection For Him, Without A Dislike Of Others? An Admiration Of Catullus Or Virgil, Of Tibullus Or Ovid, Is Never To Be Heightened By A Discharge Of Bile On Horace.

There Is A Gravity Which Is Not Austere Nor Captious, Which Belongs Not To Melancholy Nor Dwells In Contraction Of Heart: But Arises From Tenderness And Hangs Upon Reflection.

We Oftener Say Things Because We Can Say Them Well, Than Because They Are Sound And Reasonable.

Sculpture And Painting Are Moments Of Life; Poetry Is Life Itself.

Was Genius Ever Ungrateful? Mere Talents Are Dry Leaves, Tossed Up And Down By Gusts Of Passion, And Scattered And Swept Away; But, Genius Lies On The Bosom Of Memory, And Gratitude At Her Feet.