Poetry, unlike oratory, should not aim at clarity... but be dense with meaning, 'something to be chewed and digested'.

There is a nick in Fortune's restless wheel For each man's good.

And let a scholar all earth's volumes carry, he will be but a walking dictionary: a mere articulate clock.

Words writ in waters.

Tis immortality to die aspiring, As if a man were taken quick to heaven.

And for the authentical truth of either person or actions, who (worth the respecting) will expect it in a poem, whose subject is not truth, but things like truth? Poor envious souls they are that cavil at truth's want in these natural fictions; material instruction, elegant and sententious excitation to virtue, and deflection from her contrary, being the soul, limbs, and limits of an authentical tragedy.

Flatterers look like friends, as wolves like dogs.