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The less a man thinks or knows about his virtues, the better we like him. - Ralph Waldo Emerson

CX



Alas! \'tis true, I have gone here and there,

And made my self a motley to the view,

Gor\'d mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,

Made old offences of affections new;

Most true it is, that I have look\'d on truth

Askance and strangely; but, by all above,

These blenches gave my heart another youth,

And worse essays prov\'d thee my best of love.

Now all is done, save what shall have no end:

Mine appetite I never more will grind

On newer proof, to try an older friend,

A god in love, to whom I am confin\'d.

  Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,

  Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.

 	--William Shakespeare

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.
T. S. Eliot

CXLVI



Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, 

My sinful earth these rebel powers array,

Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,

Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?

Why so large cost, having so short a lease,

Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?

Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,

Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body\'s end?

Then soul, live thou upon thy servant\'s loss,

And let that pine to aggravate thy store;

Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;

Within be fed, without be rich no more:

  So shall thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,

  And Death once dead, there\'s no more dying then.

 	--William Shakespeare