What are you reading?
A strange fellow here
Writes me that man, how dearly ever parted,
How much in having, or without or in,
Cannot make boast to have that which he hath,
Nor feels not what he owes but by reflection;
As when his virtues shining upon others
Heat them, and they retort that heat again
To the first giver.
This is not strange, Ulysses.
The beauty that is borne here in the face
The bearer knows not, but commends itself
To others’ eyes; nor doth the eye itself,
That most pure spirit of sense, behold itself,
Not going from itself; but eye to eye opposed
Salutes each other with each other’s form;
For speculation turns not to itself
Till it hath traveled and is married there
Where it may see itself. This is not strange at all.
I do not strain at the position —
It is familiar — but at the author’s drift;
Who in his circumstance expressly proves
That no man is the lord of anything —
Though in and of him there be much consisting —
Till he communicate his parts to others;
Nor doth he of himself know them for aught
Till he behold them formed in th’applause
Where they’re extended; who, like an arch, reverb’rate
The voice again, or, like a gate of steel
Fronting the sun, receives and renders back
His figure and his heat.