Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared.

In general I do not draw well with literary men -- not that I dislike them but I never know what to say to them after I have praised their last publication.

What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill A certain portion of uncertain paper: Some liken it to climbing up a hill, Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour: For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper," To have, when the original is dust, A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.

That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech.

The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space.

To be perfectly original one should think much and read little, and this is impossible, for one must have read before one has learnt to think.

The castled crag of Drachenfels, Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scatter'd cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine.