The former post was off topic and was removed as it was a violation of our
Great Books spirit.

These forums are being phased out & replaced. Join us at our new
registration-only forums at:

jollyrogerwest.com Great Books forums,
Philosophy Forums,
and booksliterature.com Great Books forums.

Please respect that these are Great Books sites. We far prefer
discussions along the following
lines:

XXIV



Mine eye hath play\'d the painter and hath stell\'d,

Thy beauty\'s form in table of my heart;

My body is the frame wherein \'tis held,

And perspective it is best painter\'s art.

For through the painter must you see his skill,

To find where your true image pictur\'d lies,

Which in my bosom\'s shop is hanging still,

That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.

Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:

Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me

Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun

Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; 

  Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,

  They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

 	--William Shakespeare

XXII



My glass shall not persuade me I am old,

So long as youth and thou are of one date;

But when in thee time\'s furrows I behold,

Then look I death my days should expiate. 

For all that beauty that doth cover thee,

Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,

Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:

How can I then be elder than thou art?

O! therefore love, be of thyself so wary

As I, not for myself, but for thee will;

Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary

As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.

  Presume not on th;heart when mine is slain,

  Thou gav\'st me thine not to give back again.

 	--William Shakespeare

The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the
source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a
stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as
good as dead: his eyes are closed. --Albert Einstein

LXXXIV



Who is it that says most, which can say more,

Than this rich praise,--that you alone, are you?

In whose confine immured is the store

Which should example where your equal grew.

Lean penury within that pen doth dwell

That to his subject lends not some small glory;

But he that writes of you, if he can tell

That you are you, so dignifies his story,

Let him but copy what in you is writ,

Not making worse what nature made so clear,

And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,

Making his style admired every where.

  You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,

  Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.

 	--William Shakespeare