There Lives Within The Very Flame Of

Ay, Much Is The Force Of Heaven-bred Poesy.

To Show Our Simple Skill, That Is The True Beginning Of Our End.

Nor Age So Eat Up My Invention.

A Violet In The Youth Of Primy Nature, Forward, Not Permanent--sweet, Not Lasting; The Perfume And Suppliance Of A Minute; No More.

I'll Break My Staff, Bury It Certain Fathoms In The Earth, And Deeper Than Did Ever Plummet Sound, I'll Drown My Book!