I awoke one morning and found myself famous.

Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.

Many are poets, but without the name;For what is Poesy but to createFrom overfeeling Good or Ill; and aimAt an external life beyond our fate,And be the new Prometheus of new men,Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late,Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain

Every day confirms my opinion on the superiority of a vicious life, and if Virtue is not its own reward, I don't know any other stipend annexed to it.

Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair?

One hates an author that's all author.

I have a passion for the name of "Mary," For once it was a magic sound to me, And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, Where I beheld what never was to be.