Wishers Were Ever Fools.

The Moon's An Arrant Thief, And Her Pale Fire She Snatches From The Sun.

Remember Thee! Ay, Thou Poor Ghost, While Memory Holds A Seat In This Distracted Globe.

Tell Me Where Is Fancy Bred, Or In The Heart, Or In The Head? How Begot, How Nourished? Reply, Reply. It Is Engend'red In The Eyes, With Gazing Fed, And Fancy Dies In The Cradle Where It Lies.

Bell, Book And Candle Shall Not Drive Me Back, When Gold And Silver Becks Me To Come On.

When I Bestride Him, I Soar, I Am A Hawk: He Trots The Air; The Earth Sings When He Touches It; The Basest Horn Of His Hoof Is More Musical Than The Pipe Of Hermes.