How Near To Good Is What Is

Mischiefs Feed / Like Beasts, Till They Be Fat, And Then They Bleed.

Weigh The Meaning And Look Not At The Words.

Soul Of The Age! The Applause, Delight, The Wonder Of Our Stage! My Shakespeare , Rise; I Will Not Lodge Thee By Chaucer Or Spenser , Or Bid Beaumont Lie A Little Further, To Make Thee A Room; Thou Art A Monument, Without A Tomb, And Art Alive Still, While Thy Book Doth Live, And We Have Wits To Read , And Praise To Give .

Memory, Of All The Powers Of The Mind, Is The Most Delicate And Frail.

Where It Concerns Himself, Who's Angry At A Slander, Makes It True.