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.

That space the Evil One abstracted stood From his own evil, and for the time remained Stupidly good, of enmity disarmed, Of guile, of hate, of envy, of revenge .

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

Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptred pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine.

The liberty of conscience, which above all other things ought to be to all men dearest and most precious.

Where shame is, there is also fear.

Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, If better thou belong not to the dawn.