Where thou art gone, adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.

The art of poetry is to touch the passions, and its duty to lead them on the side of virtue.

Made poetry a mere mechanic art.

I know that Thou art infinitely gracious, but what will become of me?

Poor England! thou art a devoted deer, Beset with every ill but that of fear. The nations hunt; all mock thee for a prey; They swarm around thee, and thou stand'st at bay.

All thy threads with magic art / Have wound themselves about this heart.

Transforms old print To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes Of gallery critics by a thousand arts.