Poets, like friends to whom you are in debt, you hate.

Poets, like whores, are only hated by each other

The union of the mathematician with the poet, fervor with measure, passion with correctness, this surely is the ideal

Greece, sound, thy Homer's, Rome thy Virgil's name, But England's Milton equals both in fame.

They best can judge a poet's worth, Who oft themselves have known The pangs of a poetic birth By labours of their own.

There is a pleasure in poetic pains, Which only poets know.