Well, as he brews, so shall he drink.
That old bald cheater, Time.
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat.
If you succeed not, cast not away the quills yet, nor scratch the wainscot, beat not the poor desk, but bring all to the forge and file again; turn it new.
How near to good is what is fair!
The voice so sweet, the words so fair, As some soft chime had stroked the air; And though the sound had parted thence, Still left an echo in the sense.