He who destroys a good book kills reason itself.
Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call earth.
Socrates... Whom well inspir'd the oracle pronounc'd Wisest of men.
In naked beauty most adorned.
The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
Thou art my father, thou my author, thou my being gav'st me; whom should I obey but thee, whom follow?