Your name is great
  In mouths of wisest censure.
Othello, Act ii. Sc. 3.  SHAKESPEARE.

  Know ye not then, said Satan, filled with scorn,—­
  Know ye not me?

* * * * *

  Not to know me argues yourselves unknown,
  The lowest of your throng.
Paradise Lost, Bk.  IV.  MILTON.

  The aspiring youth that fired the Ephesian dome
  Outlives, in fame, the pious fool that raised it.
Shakespeare’s King Richard III. (Altered), Act iii.  Sc. 1.  C. CIBBER.

  Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb
  The steep where fame’s proud temple shines afar! 
  Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime
  Has felt the influence of malignant star,
  And waged with Fortune an eternal war;
  Checked by the scoff of pride, by envy’s frown,
  And poverty’s unconquerable bar,
  In life’s low vale remote has pined alone,
  Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown!
The Minstrel, Bk.  I.  J. BEATTIE.

FANCY.

  This is the very coinage of your brain: 
  This bodiless creation ecstasy
  Is very cunning in.
Hamlet, Act iii.  Sc. 4.  SHAKESPEARE.

  When I could not sleep for cold
   I had fire enough in my brain,
  And builded with roofs of gold
   My beautiful castles in Spain!
Aladdin.  J.R.  LOWELL.

  Egeria! sweet creation of some heart
  Which found no mortal resting-place so fair
  As thine ideal breast; whate’er thou art
  Or wert,—­a young Aurora of the air,
  The nympholepsy of some fond despair;
  Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth,
  Who found a more than common votary there
  Too much adoring; whatsoe’er thy birth,
  Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.
Childe Harold, Canto IV.  LORD BYRON.

When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day,
Fancy restores what vengeance snatched away.
Eloise to Abelard.  A. POPE.

                     We figure to ourselves
  The thing we like, and then we build it up
  As chance will have it, on the rock or sand: 
  For Thought is tired of wandering o’er the world,
  And homebound Fancy runs her bark ashore.
Philip Van Artevelde, Pt.  I. Act i.  Sc. 5.  SIR H. TAYLOR.

FAREWELL.

Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been—­
A sound which makes us linger;—­yet—­farewell.
Childe Harold, Canto IV.  LORD BYRON.

  All farewells should be sudden, when forever,
  Else they make an eternity of moments,
  And clog the last sad sands of life with tears.
Sardanapalus.  LORD BYRON.

So sweetly she bade me “Adieu,”
I thought that she bade me return.
A Pastoral.  W. SHENSTONE.

He turned him right and round about
Upon the Irish shore,
And gae his bridle reins a shake,
With Adieu for evermore,
My dear,
With Adieu for evermore.
It was a’ for our Rightfu’ King.  R. BURNS.