O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend The brightest heaven of invention, A kingdom for a stage, princes to act And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!
Art made tongue-tied by authority.
While we lie tumbling in the hay.
They say miracles are past.
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief