We love and understand talent; we wish it be within us. The truly gifted, those exceptional few, must wait for the world to catch up.

Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!

Poetry is a counterfeit creation, and makes things that are not, as though they were

As states subsist in part by keeping their weaknesses from being known, so is it the quiet of families to have their chancery and their parliament within doors, and to compose and determine all emergent differences there.

We can die by it, if not live by love, And if unfit for tombs and hearse Our legend be, it will be fit for verse; And if no peace of chronicle we prove, We'll build in sonnet pretty rooms; As well a well wrought urne becomes The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs.

All Kings, and all their favorites, All glory of honors, beauties, wits, The sun itself, which makes times, as they pass, Is elder by a year, now, than it was When thou and I first one another saw: All other things, to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay; This, no tomorrow hash, nor yesterday, Running, it never runs from us away, But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.

Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.