[Rhyme is] but the invention of a barbarous age, to set off wretched matter and lame Meter; ... Not without cause therefore some both Italian and Spanish poets of prime note have rejected rhyme, ... as have also long since our best English tragedies, as... trivial and of no true musical delight; which [truly] consists only in apt numbers, fit quantity of syllables, and the sense variously drawn out from one verse into another, not in the jingling sound of like endings, a fault avoided by the learned ancients both in poetry and all good oratory.

But oh! as to embrace me she inclined, I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night.

Such bickerings to recount, met often in these our writers, what more worth is it than to chronicle the wars of kites or crows flocking and fighting in the air?

Methought I saw my late espoused saint Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave.

When a sonnet is mediocre it is bad, for it should be sublime.

Irish poets, earn your trade, Sing whatever is well made, Scorn the sort now growing up All out of shape from toe to top, Their unremembering hearts and heads …

Teenage girls with no life experiences and boys who call themselves punk are on my radio singing about how much pain they've endured and how hard their lives a…