Neat Marlowe, bathed in theThespian springs, Had in him those brave translunary things That the first poets had; his raptures were All air and fire, which made his verses clear, For that fine madness still he did retain Which rightly should possess a poet's brain.
Yo soy un hombre sincero De donde crece la palma, Yantes de morirme quiero Echar mis versos del alma. I am a sincere man from where the palm tree grows; and before I die I want to loose my verses from my heart.
Poets may boast (as safely-vain) Their work shall with the world remain: Both bound together, live, or die, The verses and the prophecy. But who can hope his lines shou'd long Last, in a daily changing tongue? While they are new, envy prevails, And as that dies, our language fails.
No one will get at my verses who insists upon viewing them as a literary performance.