Unless An Age Too Late,

Among The Writers Of All Ages, Some Deserve Fame, And Have It; Others Neither Have Nor Deserve It; Some Have It, Not Deserving It; Others, Though Deserving It, Yet Totally Miss It, Or Have It Not Equal To Their Deserts.

Sweet Is The Breath Of Morn, Her Rising Sweet, With Charm Of Earliest Birds.

A Beardless Cynic Is The Shame Of Nature.

He That Has Light Within His Own Clear Breast May Sit In The Centre, And Enjoy Bright Day: But He That Hides A Dark Soul And Foul Thoughts Benighted Walks Under The Mid-day Sun; Himself His Own Dungeon.

Or Sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's Child!