Books should to one of these fours ends conduce, for wisdom, piety, delight, or use.
Youth, what man's age is like to be, doth show; We may our ends by our beginnings know.
Books should to one of these four ends conduce, For wisdom, piety, delight, or use.
Actions o' th' last age are like almanacks o' th' last year.
Ambition is like love, impatient Both of delays and rivals.
Poetry is of so subtle a spirit, that in the pouring out of one language into another it will evaporate.
But whither am I strayed? I need not raise Trophies to thee from other men's dispraise; Nor is thy fame on lesser ruins built; Nor needs thy juster title the foul guilt Of Eastern kings, who, to secure their reign, Must have their brothers, sons, and kindred slain.
Though with those streams he no resemblance hold, Whose foam is amber and their gravel gold; His genuine and less guilty wealth t' explore, Search not his bottom, but survey his shore.
Oh, could I flow like thee, and make thy stream My great example, as it is my theme! Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull; Strong without rage; without o'erflowing, full.
Such is our pride, our folly, or our fate, That few but such as cannot write, translate.