But Shakespeare's magic could not copied be; Within that circle none durst walk but he.

I have good reason to be content,
for thank God I can read and
perhaps understand Shakespeare to his depths.

Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray; Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.

And love's the noblest frailty of the mind.

When rattling bones together fly, / From the four corners of the sky.

And all to leave, what with this toil he won, / To that unfeathered, two-legged thing, a son.