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This figure that thou here seest put, It was for gentle Shakespeare cut, Wherein the graver had a strife With Nature, to outdo the life: Oh, could he but have drawn his wit As well in brass, as he has hit His face, the print would then surpass All that was ever writ in brass; But since he cannot, reader, look Not on his picture, but his book.

For a good poet's made, as well as born, And such wast thou! Look how the father's face Lives in his issue; even so the race Of Shakespeare's mind and manner brightly shine In his well-turned and true-filed lines; In each of which he seems to shake a lance, As brandished at the eyes of ignorance.

He was not of an age, but for all time! And all the Muses still were in their prime, When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm!

Nature herself was proud of his designs, And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines! Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, As since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.

See and to be seen.

Where it concerns himself, Who's angry at a slander, makes it true.

Cut Men's throats with whisperings.

Hang sorrow, care 'll kill a cat.

Sweet meat must have sour sauce.

Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise, Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine.

To the old, long life and treasure; To the young, all health and pleasure.

It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it falls and die that night-- It was the plant and flower of Light.

I think that I shall never see A poem as lovely as a tree. . . . . Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.

All concord's born of contraries.

The voice so sweet, the words so fair, As some soft chime had stroked the air; And though the sound had parted thence, Still left an echo in the sense.

Poor worms, they hiss at me, whilst I at home Can be contented to applaud myself, . . . with joy To see how plump my bags are and my barns.