Look, then, into thine heart and write!
Being all fashioned of the self-same dust,Let us be merciful as well as just.
Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking.
What else remains for me?Youth, hope and love;To build a new life on a ruined life.
The rays of happiness, like those of light, are colorless when unbroken.
Midnight! the outpost of advancing day!The frontier town and citadel of night!
In every work regard the writer's end,Since none can compass more than they intend.
What the devil does the plot signify, except to bring in fine things?
And force them, though it was in spiteOf Nature and their stars, to write.
And then, exulting in their taper, cry, "Behold the Sun;" and, Indian-like, adore.
As though I lived to write, and wrote to live.
For who can write so fast as men run mad?
Devise, wit; write, pen; for I am for whole volumes in folio.
Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse.
The chief' glory of every people arises from its authors.
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