The rising world of waters dark and deep.

The first and wisest of them all professed To know this only, that he nothing knew.

Or if Virtue feeble were, Heav'n itself would stoop to her.

My mansion is, where those immortal shapes Of bright aerial spirits live insphered In regions mild of calm and serene air, Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call Earth.

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears.

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?

Where shame is, there is also fear.