Mighty things from small beginnings grow.

Genius must be born, it can't be taught.

My love's a noble madness.

Shakespeare was naturally learned; he needed not the spectacles of the books to read nature; he looked inward, and found her there.

…So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky

When he spoke, what tender words he used! So softly, that like flakes of feathered snow, They melted as they fell.

What judgment I had increases rather than diminishes; and thoughts, such as they are, come crowding in so fast upon me, that my only difficulty is to choose or reject; to run them into verse or to give them the other harmony of prose.