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LIX



If there be nothing new, but that which is

Hath been before, how are our brains beguil\'d,

Which labouring for invention bear amiss

The second burthen of a former child!

O! that record could with a backward look,

Even of five hundred courses of the sun,

Show me your image in some antique book,

Since mind at first in character was done!

That I might see what the old world could say

To this composed wonder of your frame;

Wh\'r we are mended, or wh\'r better they,

Or whether revolution be the same. 

  O! sure I am the wits of former days,

  To subjects worse have given admiring praise.

 	--William Shakespeare

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

LXVI



Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,

As to behold desert a beggar born,

And needy nothing trimm\'d in jollity,

And purest faith unhappily forsworn,

And gilded honour shamefully misplac\'d,

And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,

And right perfection wrongfully disgrac\'d,

And strength by limping sway disabled

And art made tongue-tied by authority,

And folly--doctor-like--controlling skill,

And simple truth miscall\'d simplicity,

And captive good attending captain ill:

  Tir\'d with all these, from these would I be gone,

  Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

 	--William Shakespeare