Who Casts To Write A Living Line,

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 .

Language Most Shows A Man; Speak That I May See Thee; It Springs Out Of The Most Retired And Inmost Parts Of Us, And Is The Image Of The Parent Of It, The Mind. No Glass Renders A Man's Form Or Likeness So True As His Speech.

Prevent Your Day At Morning.

I Have Been At My Book; And Am Now Past The Craggy Paths Of Study, And Come To The Flowery Plains Of Honour And Reputation

All Discourses But My Own Afflict Me; They Seem Harsh, Impertinent, And Irksome