Anon out of the earth a fabric huge Rose, like an exhalation.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste?
Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks and rivers wide Towers and battlements it sees Bosom'd high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighboring eyes.
Boast not of what thou would'st have done, but do.
What am I pondering, you ask? So help me God, immortality.
For books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are; nay, they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them.