You Are An Alchemist; Make Gold Of

'tis Thought The King Is Dead; We Will Not Stay. The Bay Trees In Our Country Are All Wither'd.

I Durst Not Laugh For Fear Of Opening My Lips And Receiving The Bad Air.

Thou Shouldst Not Have Been Old Till Thou Hadst Been Wise.

What's Done Can't Be Undone.

The Poet's Eye, In A Fine Frenzy Rolling, Doth Glance From Heaven To Earth, From Earth To Heaven; And As Imagination Bodies Forth The Forms Of Things Unknown, The Poet's Pen Turns Them To Shape, And Gives To Airy Nothing A Local Habitation And A Name; Such Tricks Hath Strong Imagination.