Ink is the blood of the printing-press.

My latest found, Heaven's last, best gift, my ever new delight!

O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.

I will not allow my daughters to learn foreign languages because one tongue is sufficient for a woman.

So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear,Farewell remorse: all good to me is lost;Evil,be thou my good.

And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew, Till old experience to attain To something like prophetic strain.

For neither man nor angel can discern hypocrisy, the only evil that walks invisible, except to God alone.