Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy; My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy - Ben Jonson

Where dost thou careless lie, Buried in ease and sloth? Knowledge that sleeps, doth die; And this security, It is the common moth, That eats on wits and arts, and oft destroys them both.

Subtle.
No egg but differs from a chicken more
Than metals in themselves.
Surly.
That cannot be.
The egg's ordained by nature to that end
And is a chicken in potentia.
Subtle.
The same we say of lead and other metals,
Which would be gold if they had time.
...for 'twere absurd
To think that nature in the earth bred gold
Perfect in the instant; something went before.
There must be remote matter.

Sweet swan of Avon! what a sight it were To see thee in our water yet appear, And make those flights upon the banks of Thames, That so did take Eliza, and our James. But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere Advanc'd, and made a constellation there! Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage, Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage, Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourn'd like night, And despairs day, but for thy volumes light.