Innumerable as the stars of night, Or stars of morning, dewdrops which the sun Impearls on every leaf and every flower.
Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment?
My heart contains of good, wise, just, the perfect shape.
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise. That last infirmity of noble mind. To scorn delights, and live laborious days.
That power Which erring men call Chance.
The starry cope Of heaven.