Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.

Not to know me argues yourselves unknown.

We read not that Christ ever exercised force but once; and that was to drive profane ones out of his Temple, not to force them in.

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?

Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls his watery labyrinth, which whoso drinks forgets both joy and grief.

That practis'd falsehood under saintly shew, Deep malice to conceal, couch'd with revenge.

Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony.