Full many a glorious morn I have seen Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy.

The eagle suffers little birds to sing.

If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.

Then others for breath of words respect, Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.

Gold were as good as twenty orators.

But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, Leaving no tract behind.

Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere.