To make the common marvelous is the test of genius.
A poet must need be before his own age, to be even with posterity
Beauty hath no true glass, except it be in the sweet privacy of loving eyes.
Like streams that keep a summer mind Snow-hid in Jenooary.
He gives only the worthless gold who gives from a sense of duty.
Life is the jailer, death the angel sent to draw the unwilling bolts and set us free.