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?

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

Faithful found among the faithless.

He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true poem.

A broad and ample road, whose dust is gold, And pavement stars,--as stars to thee appear Seen in the galaxy, that milky way Which nightly as a circling zone thou seest Powder'd with stars.

And live like Nature's bastards, not her sons.

Thou canst not touch the freedom of my mind.