The Attempt And Not The Deed Confounds

And So, From Hour To Hour, We Ripe And Ripe. And Then, From Hour To Hour, We Rot And Rot; And Thereby Hangs A Tale.

It Is A Basilisk Unto Mine Eye, Kills Me To Look On't.

To Me, Fair Friend, You Never Can Be Old, For As You Were When First Your Eye I Eyed, Such Seems Your Beauty Still. Three Winters Cold Have From The Forests Shook Three Summers' Pride, Three Beauteous Springs To Yellow Autumn Turn'd In Process Of The Seasons Have I Seen, Three April Perfumes In Three Hot Junes Burn'd, Since First I Saw You Fresh, Which Yet Are Green.

O! For A Muse Of Fire, That Would Ascend The Brightest Heaven Of Invention.

Tis But A Base, Ignoble Mind That Mounts No Higher Than A Bird Can Soar.