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I never intended to make art.
Walt Disney, when his work was displayed at the Metropolitan
Museum of Art

LXXIII



That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin\'d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see\'st the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west;

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death\'s second self, that seals up all in rest. 

In me thou see\'st the glowing of such fire,

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,

Consum\'d with that which it was nourish\'d by.

  This thou perceiv\'st, which makes thy love more strong,

  To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.

 	--William Shakespeare

CXLII



Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,

Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:

O! but with mine compare thou thine own state,

And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;

Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine, 

That have profan\'d their scarlet ornaments

And seal\'d false bonds of love as oft as mine,

Robb\'d others\' beds\' revenues of their rents.

Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lov\'st those

Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:

Root pity in thy heart, that, when it grows,

Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.

  If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,

  By self-example mayst thou be denied!



CXLIII



Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch

One of her feather\'d creatures broke away,

Sets down her babe, and makes all swift dispatch

In pursuit of the thing she would have stay;

Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,

Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent

To follow that which flies before her face,

Not prizing her poor infant\'s discontent;

So runn\'st thou after that which flies from thee, 

Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind;

But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,

And play the mother\'s part, kiss me, be kind;

  So will I pray that thou mayst have thy \'Will,\'

  If thou turn back and my loud crying still.

 	--William Shakespeare