Art lies by its own artifice.
There is a certain pleasure in weeping.
It is not easy to bear prosperity unruffled.
Judgement of beauty can err, what with the wine and the dark.
When the lightning strikes but one, not one only does it terrify.
Ere land and sea and the all-covering sky Were made, in the whole world the countenance Of nature was the same, all one, well named Chaos, a raw and undivided mass, Naught but a lifeless bulk, with warring seeds Of ill-joined elements compressed together.