I Like Sayers Of No Better Than

Whatever Is Old Corrupts, And The Past Turns To Snakes.

The Disease With Which The Human Mind Now Labors Is Want Of Faith

Milton Says, That The Lyric Poet May Drink Wine And Live Generously, But The Epic Poet, He Who Shall Sing Of The Gods, And Their Descent Unto Men, Must Drink Water Out Of A Wooden Bowl. For Poetry Is Not "devil's Wine," But God's Wine.

Everything Runs To Excess; Every Good Quality Is Noxious If Unmixed.

Jesus And Shakespeare Are Fragments Of The Soul, And By Love I Conquer And Incorporate Them In My Own Conscious Domain. His Virtue,--is Not That Mine? His Wit,--if It Cannot Be Made Mine, It Is Not Wit.