The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make heaven of Hell, and a hell of Heaven.

What needs my Shakespeare for his honour'd bones,- The labour of an age in piled stones? Or that his hallow'd relics should be hid Under a star-y-pointing pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?

Thou art my father, thou my author, thou my being gav'st me; whom should I obey but thee, whom follow?

Indu'd With sanctity of reason.

With a smile that glow'd Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue.

A grateful mind/ By owing owes not, but still pays, at once/ Indebted and discharg'd.

By a certain fate, great acts, and great eloquence have most commonly gone hand in hand, equalling and honoring each other in the same ages.