The Psalms foretell what I, what any shall do and suffer and say.

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.

And what is so intricate, so entangling as death? Who ever got out of a winding sheet?

The distance from nothing to a little, is ten thousand times more, than from it to the highest degree in this life.

Busy old fool, unruly sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains, call on us? Must to thy motions lovers'seasons run? Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide Late schoolboys, and sour prentices, Go tell court-huntsmen that the King will ride, Call countryants to harvest offices; Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

I will not look upon the quickening sun, But straight her beauty to my sense shall run; The air shall note her soft, the fire most pure; Water suggest her clear, and the earth sure; Time shall not lose our passages.

At the round earth's imagined corners, blow your trumpets, angels.