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All art is but imitation of nature.
Seneca

LXXXVI



Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,

Bound for the prize of all too precious you,

That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,

Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?

Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write,

Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?

No, neither he, nor his compeers by night

Giving him aid, my verse astonished.

He, nor that affable familiar ghost

Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,

As victors of my silence cannot boast;

I was not sick of any fear from thence:

  But when your countenance fill\'d up his line,

  Then lacked I matter; that enfeebled mine.

 	--William Shakespeare

History teaches that war begins when governments believe the price of
aggression is cheap.
Ronald Reagan

Business today consists in persuading crowds.
T. S. Eliot