All Hunt For Fame, But Most Mistake

Who, With Tame Cowardice Familiar Grown, Would Hear My Thoughts, But Fear To Speak Their Own.

Amongst The Sons Of Men How Few Are Known Who Dare Be Just To Merit Not Their Own.

The Scots Are Poor, Cries Surly English Pride; True Is The Charge, Nor By Themselves Denied. Are They Not Then In Strictest Reason Clear, Who Wisely Come To Mend Their Fortunes Here?

In The First Seat, In Robe Of Various Dyes, A Noble Wildness Flashing From His Eyes, Sat Shakespeare: In One Hand A Wand He Bore, For Mighty Wonders Fam'd In Days Of Yore: The Other Held A Globe, Which To His Will Obedient Turn'd, And Own'd The Master's Skill: Things Of The Noblest Kind His Genius Drew, And Look'd Through Nature At A Single View: A Loose He Gave To His Unbounded Soul, And Taught New Lands To Rise, New Seas To Roll; Call'd Into Being Scenes Unknown Before, And Passing Nature's Bounds, Was Something More.

What Is This World?--a Term Which Men Have Got, To Signify Not One In Ten Knows What; A Term, Which With No More Precision Passes To Point Out Herds Of Men Than Herds Of Asses; In Common Use No More It Means, We Find, Than Many Fools In Same Opinions Joined.