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

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

Glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.

The 'good old times' - all times when old are good.

Tis sweet to listen as the night winds creep From leaf to leaf.

Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes; But no too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes: Disguise even tenderness if thou art wise.

Be warm, be pure, be amorous, but be chaste.