Youth, what man's age is like to be, doth show; We may our ends by our beginnings know.
Poetry is of so subtle a spirit, that in the pouring out of one language into another it will evaporate.
Books should to one of these fours ends conduce, for wisdom, piety, delight, or use.
Such is our pride, our folly, or our fate, That few, but such as cannot write, translate.
When any great design thou dost intend, Think on the means, the manner, and the end.
Sure there are poets which did never dream Upon Parnassus, nor did taste the stream Of Helicon; we therefore may suppose Those made not poets, but the poets those.