Be frustrate, all ye stratagems of Hell

Captain or Colonel, or Knight in Arms, Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize, If ever deed of honour did thee please, Guard them, and him within protect from harms.

What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones, The labor of an age in pilèd stones, Or that his hallowed relics should be hid Under a star-y-pointing pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such weak witness …

And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!

He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true poem.

The great Emathian conqueror bid spare The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower Went to the ground.