Youth, what man's age is like to be, doth show; We may our ends by our beginnings know.

Nor ought a genius less than his that writ attempt translation.

But whither am I strayed? I need not raise Trophies to thee from other men's dispraise; Nor is thy fame on lesser ruins built; Nor needs thy juster title the foul guilt Of Eastern kings, who, to secure their reign, Must have their brothers, sons, and kindred slain.

Poetry is of so subtle a spirit, that in the pouring out of one language into another it will evaporate.

Uncertain ways unsafest are, and doubt a greater mischief than despair.

Youth, what man's age is like to be, doth show; We may our ends by our beginnings know.

When any great design thou dost intend, Think on the means, the manner, and the end.