Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs.

Say as you think and speak it from your souls.

We have some salt of our youth in us.

And he goes through life, his mouth open, and his mind closed.

Give it an understanding, but no tongue.

Death makes no conquest of this conqueror: For now he lives in fame, though not in life.

Well, I must be patient; there is no fettering of authority.