She, though in full-blown flower of glorious beauty, Grows cold even in the summer of her age.

Ever a glutton, at another's cost, But in whose kitchen dwells perpetual frost.

Him of the western dome, whose weighty sense Flows in fit words and heavenly eloquence.

You see through love, and that deludes your sight, As what is straight seems crooked through the water.

Imagining is in itself the very height and life of poetry, which, by a kind of enthusiasm or extraordinary emotion of the soul, makes it seem to us that we behold those things which the poet paints.

By education most have been misled; So they believe, because they were bred. The priest continues where the nurse began, And thus the child imposes on the man.

Learn to write well, or not to write at all.