Can There Be Worse Sickness, Than To

Nature Hath No Goal Though She Hath Law.

Poetry Is A Counterfeit Creation, And Makes Things That Are Not, As Though They Were

Eternity Is Not An Everlasting Flux Of Time, But Time Is As A Short Parenthesis In A Long Period.

Licence My Roving Hands, And Let Them Go Before, Behind, Between, Above, Below.

And When A Whirl-winde Hath Blowne The Dust Of The Churchyard Into The Church, And Man Sweeps Out The Dust Of The Church Into The Church-yard, Who Will Undertake To Sift Those Dusts Again, And To Pronounce, This Is The Patrician, This Is The Noble Flower, And This The Yeomanly, This The Plebian Bran.