Others

For a good poet’s made, as well as born.

For a good poet’s made, as well as born.

Sweet Swan of Avon!

Sweet Swan of Avon!

He was not of an age but for all time.

He was not of an age but for all time.

Who casts to write a living line, must sweat.

Who casts to write a living line, must sweat.

And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek.

Call forth thundering Aeschylus.

Call forth thundering Aeschylus.

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.

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.

Marlowe’s mighty line.

Marlowe’s mighty line.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not wither’d be. But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent’st it back to me; Since when it grows and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee.

Reader, look, Not at his picture, but his book.

Underneath this stone doth lie As much beauty as could die; Which in life did harbor give To more virtue than doth live.

Truth is the trial of itself And needs no other touch, And purer than the purest gold, Refine it ne’er so much.

Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free, Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all the adulteries of art: They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free, Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all the adulteries of art: They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

The dignity of truth is lost with much protesting.

Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast.

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess, excellently bright.