For a man to become a poet (witness Petrarch and Dante), he must be in love, or miserable.

I stood among them, but not of them: in a shroud of thoughts which were not their thoughts.

But every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,-- Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.

In secret we met - In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? - With silence and tears

And I would hear yet once before I perish The voice which was my music... Speak to me!

Sweet is revenge-especially to women.

On the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar.