From haunted spring and dale Edg'd with poplar pale The parting genius is with sighing sent.

Yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible.

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?

Contemplation is wisdom's best nurse.

And fast by, hanging in a golden chain, This pendent world, in bigness as a star Of smallest magnitude, close by the moon.

Enjoy your dear wit and gay rhetoric, That hath so well been taught her dazzling fence.

[Rhyme is] but the invention of a barbarous age, to set off wretched matter and lame Meter; ... Not without cause therefore some both Italian and Spanish poets of prime note have rejected rhyme, ... as have also long since our best English tragedies, as... trivial and of no true musical delight; which [truly] consists only in apt numbers, fit quantity of syllables, and the sense variously drawn out from one verse into another, not in the jingling sound of like endings, a fault avoided by the learned ancients both in poetry and all good oratory.