Many are poets, but without the name;For what is Poesy but to createFrom overfeeling Good or Ill; and aimAt an external life beyond our fate,And be the new Prometheus of new men,Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late,Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain.

Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps,Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth,Sweet is revenge--especially to women.