The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.

Out of Ireland have we come, great hatred, little room, maimed us at the start. I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic heart.

Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?

Though leaves are many, the root is one; Through all the lying days of my youth I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun Now I may wither into the truth.

Englishmen are babes in philosophy and so prefer faction-fighting to the labour of its unfamiliar thought.

The labor of the alchemists, who were called artist in their day, is a befitting comparison for a deliberate change of style.