Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.

The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart; he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!

Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.

The unconquerable pang of despised love.

How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.

By all means sometimes be alone; salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; dare to look in thy chest; and tumble up and down what thou findest there.

Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.