Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil.

Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not better done as othe…

It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th' eclipse, and rigged with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

The gadding vine.

When I am dead, I hope it may be said: 'His sins were scarlet, But his books were read'.

'Gun-wielding recluse gunned down by local police' isn't the epitaph I want. I am hoping for 'Witnesses reported the sound up to two hundred kilometers away' o…

Now, I think that I should have known that he was magic all along. I did know it - but I should have guessed that it would be too much to ask to grow old with …